


Mask

by hailingstars



Series: we're all just wearing masks [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Human Experimentation, Irondad, Parent Tony Stark, Recovery, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Undercover, spiderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 01:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 117,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15675390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailingstars/pseuds/hailingstars
Summary: The Avengers find an orphaned Peter Parker at an Osborn research facility, and after they help each other escape, Tony thinks it's probably a good idea to take him home and have him go undercover as his son to expose Norman and link him to his crimes.





	1. stars

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for clicking on my story! This is my first ever on here.
> 
> This fic is cross posted on fanfiction.net and it's up to 8 chapters there, so I'll be posting today-tomorrow until I get them all on here. 
> 
> Also, just a warning that I feel like this story starts one way and then moves in a completely different direction, so I'm sorry if you're reading and it throws you off! 
> 
> In other words, this story has identity issues.

* * *

 

1\. stars

 Peter enters the testing room wearing a black athletic shirt and black sweatpants. It’s a large room, with high, retractable ceilings, a computer control panel in the corner, a glass prison off to the side and a big area they use as a training arena in the center. Peter ignores the three prisoners behind the glass and marches straight to Monroe, giving him a curt nod as his greeting. He looks like the sort of man who would be a villain in the cartoons Peter used to watch with his parents, complete with half-glasses that slid down to the end of his nose and unruly white hair. Almost comical. Almost.

Monroe is far too cruel to elicit laughs from Peter.

“Ahhh, test subject number nine,” he says, glancing down at the clipboard he carries. If he had cared to look Peter in the eyes, he would have noticed the fiery warning hidden behind them.

He has a name and he still remembers it. Every time the scientists call him by his number, as if he is only the sum total of the experiments performed on him, his name flashes to the forefront of his memories.

_Peter. Peter. Peter._

“How are you feeling today?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

Peter nods his head.

“I see,” he says. He writes something down on the clipboard. “Have you said hello to our guests?”

He looks back over to the cage and finds he has the attention of all three prisoners. They don’t look like anything special to Peter. He squints his eyes at them, tilting his head, wondering why Monroe and the others would go through the trouble of locking them up instead of just killing them on the spot. Sure, they look strong, but strong enough to beat him in a fight? Probably not.

“Why don’t you go get a closer look?”

Peter manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes, but he’s never mastered control over his own tongue, or attitude, for that matter. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” says Monroe. He’s still looking down at the clipboard. “I believe it will be educational.”

He sighs but turns and approaches the glass cage. Peter stops and crosses his arms once he’s close enough to get a good look, staring at them, watching them watching him. The man standing closest to the glass is sporting a black-eye and he shoots Peter with a sharp glare, almost making him want to step away despite the glass that separates them, but he doesn’t. He forces himself to stay, not daring to show any weakness. He knows better. Instead, he lifts his chin, making it clear he can’t be intimidated.

Another man is sitting on the floor, looking up at him, his expression simply soft and sad. Peter can’t be sure if it’s for his own miserable situation, or for Peter’s. He looks familiar, but he can’t place him. The final prisoner is standing in the back of the cage, leaning against the wall with long black hair and not looking anywhere in particular, completely checked-out. Peter finds it doubtful the man even knows anyone is standing outside his prison.

“Do you recognize them?”

“No.” Peter turns, happy for his attention to be needed elsewhere. He doesn’t like having to interact with the prisoners before he’s forced to fight them.

“They’re the Avengers,” Monroe explains.

Peter involuntary looks back at them and draws a breath, unable to control the brief wave of terror that comes over him and flickers across his eyes. He blinks it away fast. His face becomes blank, controlled, smooth - without emotion. He remembers thinking a few times his first year at the facility the Avengers would come and rescue him and the other kids. Peter never thought they would wind up here… like this. Not as someone he’d have to fight.

Monroe seems to miss his slip-up, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by the man with the sharp eyes. His expression softens, and Peter immediately looks away again, shifts his eyes to the concrete floor beneath them before any of them zeros in on a weakness.

Inwardly, he’s cursing at himself. His eyes give him away every time.

“How old are you, kid?” asks the prisoner.

This time Peter does take a few steps back.

“Answer him,” Monroe commands.

“Thirteen,” Peter’s voice wavers a bit as he thinks. “Or fourteen, I think?”

Monroe’s flips a few pieces of paper up and examines it. “Fourteen in two days.”

“Shit."

“Does that bother you, Stark?” asks Monroe, walking across the room to stand next to Peter.

“I just didn’t think you assholes would be stupid enough to do your little experiments on children,” says Stark.

The separation between experiments and kid in Stark’s sentence stands out. Monroe doesn’t make that separation and neither do the doctors or nurses or even the people they hire to serve them their meals and clean the halls. The day Peter’s parents died, he stopped being a kid and became an experiment.

“Why wouldn’t we?” asks Monroe. “Don’t worry. No one misses him. He’s an orphan, just like the rest of them.”

The man sitting against the wall stands to his feet and joins Stark by the glass. With context, Peter does recognize him. Captain America. “When we get out of here, Monroe, we’re going to make you regret it.”

Monroe releases a loud sigh and retreats to the center of the room. Peter stays, caught in the middle of the three avengers and the mad scientist.

“Kid.”

Peter looks back at the cage.

“We’re going to get you out of here.”

He frowns at them. It’s a rather arrogant statement from someone in their positions, and he doesn’t need help from them. Monroe must think so too, because he lets out a low, cold laugh.

“You really think so, Stark? He’s too well trained to follow the Avengers anywhere. Follows our commands easily. Just watch.”

Monroe pushes a few buttons on his communication watch and the doors opens. Two guards lead a man into the center of the room and Peter’s stomach tightens. Then suddenly, he’s filled with relief. So, he’s not fighting the avengers? Just this random guy. He could handle that. The guards drop him, he scrambles to his feet, looking around before he sees Monroe and Peter standing off into the distance.

“Nine,” says Monroe.

_Peter. Peter. Peter._

Peter feels his body stand at attention. He doesn’t even think about it anymore and now, after hearing Monroe talk about him as if he isn’t standing right there, the realization hits him. Because he’s been conditioned, like lab mice, to react that way.

“Let’s give them a demonstration, shall we? Show them what our experiments have done for you.”

The next few minutes pass by in a blur as Peter and the man the guards drug into the room go head to head. It takes the whole of those two minutes to knock the man out completely and for a brief second, Peter wonders if he had been going easy on him. Once the fight is over, the Avengers are looking at him now with confused, gob-smacked expressions on their faces and Peter knows it’s the reaction Monroe wants from the smug smile stretched across his face.

Monroe orders him to leave and Peter walks out of the room. He doesn’t look back.

* * *

It’s well past midnight by now, at least he thinks it must be, but Peter’s still awake. He’s never slept well, although he supposes never is a word he shouldn’t use. Maybe he slept through the nights before coming here, a long, long time ago. He remembers his mom tucking him into a bed too big for him, kissing him on the cheek, his colorful bedroom with a poster of Captain America on the wall. He remembers gazing up at the glow-in-the dark star stickers his dad helped him stick to the ceiling until he drifted away into his dreams. Those nights he probably slept well. It’s been so long he can’t remember the feeling.

He shifts, attempting to rearrange himself on the twin bed, and cringes as the metal frame creaks beneath him. Peter lifts his arm, extending his left wrist so it’s in front of his face and begins to fiddle around with black bracelet attached to him.

It’s a tracker, for sure, but what else? Peter doesn’t know, or at least he’s not completely sure. He suspects it’s an insurance policy, a way for them to make sure their research doesn’t fall into foreign hands, or in other words, a device that could probably end his life with the press of a button if he runs. He’s seen it before. Kids collapsing, clutching their wrists and screaming in pain, until finally they didn’t have any air left to scream. Afterwards, they laid on the ground motionless or sometimes slightly twitching.

The memories are enough warning for Peter to understand getting it off is the key to escaping with his life. It’s the final piece of the puzzle. After learning and memorizing all the security codes, stealing a floorplan from the incompetent moron who operates the front office and practicing scaling the walls as silently as possible, he’s confident once the bracelet is gone, escaping will be a walk in the park.

Peter shoots into a sitting position, ready to fight, when his door creaks open without warning. Expecting One to come through the door, he relaxes, releases a breath, when a small black-haired girl walks into his room, gently shutting the door behind her. Her cheeks red. Her eyes watery. It’s been months since her arrival and she hasn’t stopped crying. He can’t remember what day he stopped and started planning escape.

“Laney,” he says. “Why are you out of bed? You know what will happen if they catch you out past curfew.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says, quiet. She stands by his door, staring at the ground. “You’re always out of bed past curfew.”

“That’s because I never get caught,” he reminds her.

“Yeah because you stick to the walls.” She smiles through her obviously forming tears and makes a crawling motion with her hand. “Like a spider.”

Laney hesitantly walks further into his room, as if she’s afraid Peter might tell her to leave, but when he doesn’t, sits on the end of his bed. She wraps her little arms around her stomach. “My belly won’t let me sleep.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. It won’t quit growling.”

“You’ve already eaten all the granola bars I gave you?”

“Yes,” she says, then she looks at him, lip trembling and eye welling up. “They won’t let me have dinner anymore. They say it’s part of my t-training.”

He shouldn’t get involved. Playing big brother, as One calls it, always ends badly, but as Peter watches her wiping tears from her own eyes, he can’t help it. He has to do something. First, he looks under his own bed and frowns when there’s nothing there. He must’ve given his last box of contraband food to David the night before. His stash is completely depleted.

“It’s okay,” says Peter. He smiles at her, trying to reassure her, anything to get the tears to dry. It works. Just barely. “I’ll just have to go get some more.”

He stands, putting his feet on the cold, concrete floor and picking up his facility issued plain black hoodie, pulling it up and over his head. He slips his shoes on while he tells Laney to stay put and stay quiet and carefully opens his door, slides out of his room before shutting it as if it were a bomb that might go off if handled incorrectly.

Peter glances down at the black bracelet keeping him prisoner as he effortless navigates the halls, staying in the shadows and keeping his steps light as air. He turns left at the end of a hall, then stops dead in his tracks, senses going wild. He looks around. Nothing. No one. He frowns, but proceeds anyway, though more slowly. Carefully.

When he finally gets to the backdoor of the kitchens, he looks around once more before punching in the access code and waiting for the click to indicate the door has been unlocked. It happens seconds later and Peter grins. Incompetent. It defines every adult working in this building. Even Monroe. He opens the door, catching it with his foot and spinning around quickly and defensively at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

“Smart boy,” it says, or she, it turns out. She’s dressed in all black too, with red hair and an irritatingly blank expression across her face. She narrows her eyes. “You’re very young.”

“And you’re an Avenger,” he says. It only makes sense. He’s never seen her before and he doesn’t believe in coincidences enough to believe a stranger prowling around after dark on the same day the Avenger come around for a little forced visitation is unrelated. “Are you here to save your friends?”

If she’s surprised he knows about her Avenger-status, it doesn’t reach her face. “Something like that. Do you plan on attempting to stop me?”

“I have better things to do.”

He makes a move to disappear into the kitchen, but the woman reaches her arm out, a shiny watch gleaming on her wrist as she stops the security door from closing with the palm of her hand. Peter sighs and turns back around to face her, not wanting her to follow him any further.

“I suppose that means you won’t help me out with the security codes,” she says.

“Sorry,” says Peter. “Too risky.”

“But you do know them,” she presses.

He shrugs, refusing to say either way.

“They call me Black Widow,” she tells him, attempting a new angle, “What do they call you?”

“Experiment Subject Number Nine,” he answers her. “But I’m just Peter. Wait, Black Widow, like the spider? Why?”

“It’s not a story for children,” she says. “And definitely not for bedtime… My friends call me Nat.”

It’s there again. Just like in the training room with Stark, Captain American and the other one. A continued denial of what he really is… a mutant capable of climbing up walls and tossing a tank across the room. Not a child. He isn’t sure if he should welcome the distinction or be insulted by it. He guesses it’s better than being referred to by a number. Better than being a science experiment.

“Whatever,” says Peter, deciding to dismiss her. He pushes on the door’s other side, overpowering her. “Have a nice night, Nat,” he manages to tell her before he shuts it completely.

He raids the cabinets for the candy bars and other snack foods the chef and his staff keep hidden. It doesn’t take him long before he finds another box of granola bars, which he empties into the pocket of his hoodie and an unopened bag of chips, which he opts to carry.

Peter half expects to see Nat the Avenger standing on the other side of the door when he opens it, waiting for him, but when he looks around and sees nothing, he takes off back down the hallway, making it back to his room in record time. Laney, as promised, is still sitting on his bed when he returns and grins wide she sees him carrying a whole bag of chips.

Laney opens it as soon as he hands it over, immediately stuffing as many as she could fit into her mouth while Peter takes the granola bars out of his pocket and tosses them near where she sits on the bed.

“Ration them out this time, okay?” He tells her, once she’s eaten all the chips she wants and begins to gather the bars in her hands.

Laney nods her head. A real smile across her face. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Anytime.”

She stands, granola bars in hand and walks across the room.

“Wait,” says Peter. “Do you still remember? Or do you need me to remind you?”

“Laney Hall,” she tells him, titling up her chin. “Eight years old.”

“And your birthday? You shouldn’t forget your birthday.”

“June 9. It was sunny and rainy at the same time.”

“Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” she says, same small voice as earlier, as she leaves Peter alone in the room with the grey concrete walls and no stars stuck to the ceiling.

* * *

“Please tell me this completely ridiculous mission has another purpose other than furthering your unhealthy obsession with Norman Osborn.”

Black Widow stands outside the glass cage, looking down at her teammates, who are uncomfortably sprawled out with very limited space. If she wasn’t too preoccupied with the short conversation she had just moments ago with Just Peter, she might have taken a few seconds, at least, to revel in their discomfort. It is, after all, their fault. They had been warned to stay away. They didn’t listen.

Tony blinks up at her with a swelling black-eye and a scowl stretched across his face. “Hey, I was right, wasn’t I?”

“It’s not about being right.”

“No,” says Tony, shaking his head. “It’s about turning a blind eye while Osborn runs wild, experimenting on kids, just so he gets to play mad scientist. That’s clear now, thanks.”

“No one is turning a blind eye,” she tells him. Then looks away at the lit-up computer in the corner of the room. The monitor is blinking. “And we didn’t know about the kids.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” says Steve. “Have you found a way to override the system and get us out of here?”

“No,” says Nat, suffering through a groan from both Tony and Bucky. “But I met someone who may be able to help.”

“Great,” says Tony. “Get them here, we’ll grab the kid and be on our way.”

“The kid?” Nat raises an eyebrow.

“Tony’s become attached to the idea of taking one of the children with us,” says Steve. He sighs and rubs his temple, giving Nat the impression she’s stumbling into an argument they’ve been having a better part of the evening. Steve directs his attention towards Tony. “You shouldn’t have promised him we would take him. We don’t know what the circumstance will be when we get out, we don’t know how much time we’ll – “

“I don’t care,” says Tony. “The kid comes with us.”

“What kid?” Nat asks again, making her voice louder. She has a sneaking suspicion she already knows what kid they’re talking about, has already spoken with him. She’s also fairly sure he’s the key they need to get the cage open.

“One of the children they’re running experiments on,” says Steve. “We watched him take out a HYDRA agent in under two minutes, without breaking a sweat.”

“Or blinking,” adds Bucky, surprising Nat. He didn’t appear to even be on the same planet as the rest of them, let alone able to pay attention to their conversation.

“Wait, HYDRA’s here?”

“They were curious, too,” says Tony. “Yes, I used past tense on purpose, because once the boy knocked him out they called another one in here to finish the job.”

“Jesus,” says Nat. “Children shouldn’t be taught to kill.”

“No kidding,” says Stark. “Which is why we’re taking the kid with us. The normal one. Not the deranged one.”

“Let me guess,” Natasha says, “Brown floppy hair, skinny, generally unimpressed attitude? That’s the normal one?”

“What do you know about it?”

“He’s our guy with the codes,” she explains. “I trailed him as he snuck through the halls and watch him key in one of them. From our conversation, I think it’s safe to say he knows more of them. Pretty tech savvy. Seems like Stark’s type. Looking for an intern?”

“He doesn’t care about the boy,” says Bucky, with a snort. “He’s just trying to piss off Monroe and Osborn. We listened to Monroe ramble on and on about he’s their biggest success story and if we walk out the door with him, we leave with the culmination of their research.”

“I liked you better when you didn’t talk,” says Tony. “Don’t make me out to be so heartless, Barnes.”

“Is that not the reason?”

Tony doesn’t answer him, but instead clinches his jaw. “It doesn’t matter what my motivations are. If he knows the security codes, we need him anyway, so I guess I win then, huh?”

Without warning the lights in the large room come on, nearly blinding all of them and the door opens. Professor Monroe and someone Natasha immediately recognizes as the boy who Tony dubbed as the deranged marches through the door. Monroe sends her a smug smile, then points at her, glancing at the red-face, blond haired boy at his side.

“End her.”


	2. the boy who wouldn't grow up

  1. the boy who wouldn’t grow up



 

When Peter finally drifts off in a restless, sort-of sleep like state, he’s snapped back into consciousness by the sound of his door coming open with a slam. He snaps upright at the same time the harsh overhead lights turn on, blinking at the figure in the doorway a few times before forcing himself to the conclusion that he isn’t having a nightmare. One is really there, carelessly playing with a lighter and whistling a song Peter thinks sounds eerily familiar.

There’s specks of dried blood mixed with his light, sandy blonde hair, a sort of dreamlike smile planted on his face, while he stares back at Peter, slouched against the door casually. 

“What do you want?”

The whistling stops. He pockets the lighter.

“It’s not what I want,” he says. “It’s more like what you _don’t_ want.”

“Okay,” says Peter. Keep it simple. The best philosophy he knows, at least when he’s dealing with One. If he refuses to play along and talk in riddles, maybe he’ll just go away, find someone else to torment.

“They took Nineteen to the back room just now,” he continues. “I was there. I helped, of course, you know how they like me to help when the subjects get a little… out of control. She kicked and screamed the whole way… yelling for her dead parents. So sad.”

Peter clutches at his blanket, squeezing the fabric together as he makes a fist, then releases, over and over again, as he tries to chase away the fantasy playing out in his head, where he springs up from the bed and slams One’s against the wall. It wouldn’t take much force to knock him out, if he were able to catch him off guard, but once he decides it isn’t smart, especially with the lighter – practically a deadly weapon when One’s holding it – so nearby. He continues to use his blanket like it’s a stress ball until he’s sure he can speak without sounding rattled.

“Why?”

“Dunno,” says One, shrugging away from the wall. He meets Peter’s eyes and smiles. It’s not a sincere smile. It’s a taunt. “Something about sneaking food.”

“Maybe they should feed her more,” says Peter. “Does this conversation have a point? Or did you come in here and wake me up just for that?”

“No,” he says. His grin grows bigger, wilder. “I’m supposed to escort you to the training room.”

“Dude, it’s 3 AM.”

“I don’t make the orders,” he says.

With an annoyed sigh, Peter puts his shoes on and follows One through the maze of hallways. Glaring at the back of One’s head, Peter notices more blood and desperately wishes he knew who it belonged to. It couldn’t be Laney’s. They don’t allow violence between test subjects. That left the Avengers. Was One really at the point where he could kill one of them in hand-to-hand combat? Or did he have to use his powers to finish them off? Because if One fought them, they’re definitely finished off. That’s his job. He’s a weapon, an enforcer and he’s good at it. And getting even better.

As they get closer to the training room, Peter’s mind moves away from One and towards his own fate. It’s clear they know about the food but getting into trouble has never involved getting up in the middle of night. At least not before.

“Do you know what they want?”

“To show you off, probably,” says One. “You’ve always been the favorite…” They stop and stand outside of the door, facing each other. “Don’t look so glum, chum. It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”

Peter has the question of what’s going to be fun on his lips, but he never gets the chance to ask. One opens the door, grabs the back of his neck and pushes him inside. A blob of messy blonde hair is all he sees before the door is pulled shut again, forcing Peter to turn around and fix his attention on what’s in front of him. He half-expects to see one of the Avengers charcoaled to the floor, but he doesn’t. Black Widow is out cold, and is in fact, on the floor, but just a little bruised. Her chest is still moving up and down.

Monroe stands in the middle of the room with two armed guards nearby. “Good of you to join us.”

Behind Monroe, the Avengers are staring at him with rapt attention, worse than the first time. Even the man who looked completely checked out before is standing closer to the glass, focused on him. Peter tries to ignore them, and his eyes move to Nat automatically. His stomach begins to knot as it starts to become clear to him what’s happening, or rather, what’s going to happen, what Monroe expects him to do.

“Do you feel sorry for her?” he asks, tilting his head at him. “It’s your fault, you know. Had you raised an alarm when you saw an Avenger roaming the facility after dark, she might have been allowed to join her teammates. Now she gets to bleed out on the floor.”

“How was I supposed to know who she was?” Peter stretches out his arm, dramatically beckoning at Black Widow. “Your turnover rate is so high, it’s impossible to keep track of whose an employee and who isn’t.”

“Do not lie to me,” says Monroe. There’s something sharp about his voice that makes Peter stand a little straighter. He watches the man carefully as he closes the distance between them. Distance Peter had left there intentionally, but regardless, he stands his ground. “Let me assure you, your late-night adventures, gallivanting around this facility, stealing food and gear from my staff and passing it around to the younger kids, like some sort of pathetic, mutant Robin Hood, end tonight.”

Peter doubts it. He holds no faith in Monroe or any of his staff to have intelligence enough to keep him in his room if he doesn’t want to be there. The strength, maybe, if they use One, but he knows they have better things to do with him than to have him babysit all day and night.

“You have no idea what you’ve done. A completely good study has been ruined and terminated. We’ll have to start from scratch with a new subject.”

“…you killed her?” asks Peter, slowly, still trying to process the implication behind Monroe’s statement. He makes another fist, but this time, there’s no blanket between his fingers and he doesn’t release.

“Terminated,” he clarifies.

There’s no room in his lungs for air. The room spins, and he might crash into the floor, any second, except a few go by and he doesn’t. Peter stays upright. Another second goes by. The room isn’t spinning, was never actually spinning, he realizes, and he gasps, one big, loud breath making up for the longest few seconds of his life where he forgot how to breath.

“No need to panic,” says Monroe. He unclips the gun from his belt. “I am forgiving. You can have a second chance, but you’ll have to clean up after your mistake first.”

Monroe holds out his hand, offering him the gun and Peter takes it, hesitant, not quite believing the man’s giving up his one line of defense. Had Monroe been there when they killed Laney? Did he stand by while he had staff inject her with needles until she faded away, or maybe he pushed a button on his watch, activated whatever’s inside the security bracelets that makes them drop dead.

He turns the gun over in his hands. It’s heavier than the ones he’s used to practicing with. This one is special, loaded with bullets designed specifically to takeout mutants, in case of emergency. Looking at Black Widow, he wonders if a gunshot wound from this gun will be more painful for her. Then his eyes find Monroe again. He wonders if it will be more painful for him.

“It’s time for you to grow up, Nine,” he says. “Time for you to learn from your own mistakes. Shoot her.”

Peter doesn’t raise the gun. Makes no indication he’s heard anyone speaking at all. He’s vaguely aware one or two of the Avengers are shouting at him, but he’s not listening, not in a place to process anything that’s being yelled. Once he made up his mind though, it stops. All the noise in the room goes dim. He moves to Monroe’s other side, so his back faces the glass, so he doesn’t have to look at their faces while he kills someone.  

Monroe’s voice is the first that breaks through the wall of quiet his mind has built. “I said shoot her!”

“I don’t think I will,” says Peter. He’s adopting a tone he’s learned from One, because now the quiet is gone and there’s too much noise, all in his head and he can’t find the voices that belong to him. Something’s broken. A cord snapped. He takes a several steps backwards, enough so he doesn’t have to tilt his head up to look Monroe in the eyes. When they’re on even, level ground, he raises the gun, arm strong and steady, and points it at the crazy scientist, with wild, white hair. “Maybe I’ll shoot you.”

“Nine – “

“-My name’s Peter!” Shouting feels good. It lets the noise out of his head and into the vast room. And it’s loud. So loud Peter sees Black Widow stirring from the corner of his eye, being pulled back into consciousness.

The two guards begin to move as well, shuffling forwards, hands on their own guns.

“Stay back,” he orders them, calm and controlled. A rush of satisfaction comes over him. It’s nice to be the one dulling out orders for a change. “Or you’ll be cleaning his brains off the wall.”

“You would never do it. You don’t have it in you.”

“Try me.”

Monroe studies him for several seconds. “Listen to him.”

The guards move backwards, but they don’t take their eyes off Peter or the gun. Neither of them moves their hands away from their own guns. It’s a stand-off and Peter’s heart speeds up, his breathes start coming fast. He’s not coming back from this one. This is different than stealing food or mouthing off. If he messes something up now, it’s game over, but when his eyes fall on the tracker around his wrist, he realizes it’s been game over for a while now. He’s trapped. No way out. Not unless he can get the bracelet off.

His eyes narrow in on the communications watch on Monroe’s hand. He shakes the gun at it. “Take that off. Don’t touch the screen or I’ll – “

“You’ll blow my brains across the room as you so eloquently put it, yes I know,” says Monroe. He begins unclasping several of the notches. “You always were a clever one. Always stubborn. Always a challenge, but don’t worry. We’ll cure you of that. After this little temper tantrum is over, we’ll be sure to devote most special attention to you, to make sure you learn, to make sure a mess like this doesn’t happen again.”

He undoes the last clasp and the watch falls to the ground by Monroe’s feet.

“Kick it over here,” says Peter. Monroe does, sending it sliding across the floor for Peter to pick up and examine.

“Let me ask you this, _Nine_ , what do you suppose you’ll do after killing me? Do you expect to take out the entire guard? And One? Consider your future. You won’t have one if you continue what’re you’re doing.”

The words only barely register with Peter as he attempts to search through the communication device with his free hand and still keep the gun pointed at Monroe. He wouldn’t need to if the guards weren’t there, ready to shoot if he lowers his defense. He and Monroe both know Peter doesn’t need a gun if it were just the two of them.

“How do I get this off?” asks Peter, frustrated, shaking the wrist with the bracelet on it.

“Not telling.”

“I’ll shoot you.”

“Do it, then,” says Monroe. He smiles. It’s fake, a bluff. “Some secrets are worth dying for.”

“Hey. Uh, hello?”

A voice from behind Peter causes him to pause and turn his head.

“Yeah hi, I’m Tony Stark,” he tells him. Peter blinks at him, confused. “Tech genius? Billionaire? No, nothing? The point is, I can get that… whatever that’s supposed to be, off of you.”

Peter considers him for a moment. It’s one second too long. The doors slamming shut pulls his attention away from Stark and when he sees the guards are missing, that they have run away and there’s no doubt in Peter’s mind that they will come back with backup. With One. That’s a fight Peter doesn’t need. At least not right now.

“Initiate a lockdown,” says Stark, as if he’s reading his mind. “This place has an emergency system, right? Buy us some time and I will help you get that off.”

A simple solution. Peter should’ve thought of that.

“He’s a liar,” says Monroe. “And he’s trying to manipulate you. He doesn’t even know how it works.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he says. “It’s made by Oscorp. How complicated can it be?”

Peter watches the two men sneer at each other, unable to trust either of them, but Stark is at least right about something. He needs to put the room on lockdown. Fast. Before One storms the room with more guards and he ends up dead. But one look at Monroe tells him he can’t take the gun off him, not even for a second. He’ll run, and Peter will lose leverage. Then he’s struck with a powerful thought. He can make it so Monroe never runs again. He can make it so he never talks or calls him Nine or breathes ever again. He’s willing to lose leverage for that.

He moves his arm and he points the gun at the small space between Monroe’s eyes.

“Why don’t you give the gun to Natasha?” It’s Captain America this time, and sure enough, when Peter looks over, he sees Nat getting to her feet. She walks towards them. Crowding him. Pressuring him. “She’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Peter informs them. “Then nobody will have to bother.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“He killed my –“ But Peter stops, a sob gets stuck somewhere in his throat. What was Laney to him? A friend? Not really. More like a little sister. “He killed Laney.”

“He’s going to pay for it,” says Captain America. “But not like this.”

His arm shakes, his resolve begins to crumble, and by the time Nat stands right next to him, it’s gone completely, as quickly as it arrived. She puts her hand on the top of the gun, moves it away from Monroe and towards empty space. Peter lets go. He lets her take the gun and is surprised that he breathes easier, despite being unsure if he’s done that right thing, if Nat has done him a favor or a disservice.

“Kid, we’re running out of time,” says Stark.

He shifts his gaze to the computers and starts towards them with a run, pocketing Monroe’s watch as he goes. He throws himself into the desk chair and gets to work on the computer. It takes under a minute to put the training room under an emergency lockdown. A timer fills the screen. He has thirty minutes before the doors can be opened again. He jogs back over to the glass cage and gives them a confirmation in the form of a nod.

“Great,” says Stark. “We can check off step one. Now I need you to get us out of here.”

“Wh – I don’t – “

“I know you’re smart enough to know the access codes. You watch him punch them in all the time, don’t you?”

“He’s not even careful about it,” he admits, without thinking.

Stark gives him a pained smile. It’s not insincere. “How can I help you from inside here?”

“You could give me instructions – “

“Uh nuh,” says Stark. “Doesn’t work that way.”

Theoretically, it’s an easy task. It’s only a matter of walking back over to the computers and typing in the correct number sequence. But Stark could be lying. Maybe he doesn’t how to help him. Maybe he’s not even interested in helping him. Just wants to get out. And what will him and the rest of them do once they have their freedom? Adults can’t be trusted. Maybe his parents, his aunt and uncle were exceptions, but they are all gone now.

And he’s alone. He has to do this alone.

“You’re already in over your head,” points out the third Avenger. Peter takes notice of his metal arm and looks down at his own hand, the one fixed with the tracker. “Can it really get any worse by letting us out?”

He’s about to answer, when he’s interrupted.

“Peter,” says Monroe, looking a bit mad, a bit desperate. “Don’t do you dare listen to them. You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know who these people are, what they will do to you after this is over. You think we’re bad? You think we’ve mistreated you? Everything we’ve done is to make you better, stronger! And you are! Look at you. But mark my words, you let them out now and you’ll regret it.”

Nat responds by sending her elbow into his stomach. He collapses with a groan. “He talks too damn much.”

Peter had been unsure before, uncertain to the point where he couldn’t imagine letting them out, but Monroe’s speech clears things up for him. If he has to choose between the three strangers in the glass cage and Monroe, if he has to pick between the two to trust, his bets are on the Avengers. Besides, he does need help with the bracelet, if Stark isn’t lying, and then he can be on his own, do things his way.

“Okay,” says Peter.

He turns once again and starts his walk back over to the computers. Sitting back down in the black cushioned desk chair brings relief, and for the first time, he realizes how tired, how drained, he is. He rubs his eyes before moving the timer to the second monitor. Then he pulls up the operating panel a second time, except this time, he double clicks the tab labelled GLASS PRISON and enters the code that will release the prisoners. The glass panel slides up, into the ceiling and the barrier between the Avengers the rest of the room is gone.

The timer blinks. There’s twenty-five minutes left on the clock.

* * *

Arrogant and incompetent. It’s the very worst combination of personality traits and Tony knew, after about five minutes of being forced to listen to Monroe speak, that the man possesses both. Arrogant to think genetic testing, on human subjects, is a good idea. Even more arrogant to think those kids he experiments on wouldn’t someday figure out they’re the ones with the actual power, and then finally, arrogant enough to then put a gun into the hand of a child who clearly hates him.

Now, however, Tony can’t find a single shred of that arrogance present on Monroe’s face. Just a relatively smart, but mostly incompetent scientist, hired by Norman Osborn to carry out his dirty work in private. He’s staring into the faces of a very angry Captain America, Black Widow and Winter Soldier. They’ve got it handled.

Tony focuses in on the kid. He’s still sitting at the computers, staring at the screens and watching a giant timer tick away, as if he’s hypnotized. He approaches, slowly, and Peter doesn’t notice him until he’s close. Instead of getting jumpy, which Tony expects, he simply turns the rolling chair with his foot to face Tony instead of the monitors.

“Ready to get that thing off you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I need to look it at.”

“Oh, right,” he says. He stretches out his hand and Tony grab his wrist, getting a closer look at the bracelet attached to it.

“It’s a tracker?” Tony guesses, running his thumb along the cool, sleek black metal. He doesn’t feel any groves, or any indication of where it’s supposed to open.

“Yeah,” says Peter. “But it’s more than that. It… it’s fatal, if they want it to be.”

Tony nods his understanding, then repositions. He pushes the chair, and the boy along with it, closer to desk, where he takes his seat. He grabs the lamp, brings it closer and instructs Peter to put his wrist under it. Once he has a better look it, Tony knows it’s bad. There’s no space between the tracker and the boy’s skin, as if it’s embedded, as if it’s a part of him, with roots planted deep reaching deep underneath.

An obvious solution comes to mind, but he rejects it immediately. Not an option.

“You don’t really look like an Avenger,” says Peter. He’s leaned back in the chair, the dark circles under his eyes are more noticeable, either because of his proximity or because the events of the evening have worn him down. Probably, it’s both.

“I didn’t know there’s a certain appearance to maintain,” says Tony, half-heartedly. Most of his attention belongs to the bracelet.

“What do you even do?” he asks. “What are your powers?”

Tony sighs, frustrated, by the countdown distracting him, by the boy’s questions and by the tracker he can’t seem to figure out. It’s going to have to be forced off. There’s nothing on the surface to interact with. Almost as if it’s not meant to be taken off.

Tony glances down at Peter, wondering if he could handle what he’s about to do. Dark circles aside, he wouldn’t be able to tell he’s capable of holding a gun to someone’s head and threatening to pull the trigger, or even beating the hell out of that HYDRA agent hours earlier. He looks so completely normal. On the outside. Appearances are tricky.

“I’m a mechanic.”

Peter scrunches up his face. “So, it’s not exclusive, then? Just anyone can join?”

“Natasha,” he yells out, losing patience, losing focus. “Get over here.”  

She frowns, affronted by being talked to that way, but joins them regardless.

“Learning anything new?”

“He’s not feeling particularly chatty anymore,” says Nat.

“Cap’s too nice. Never get anything out of him that way.”

“How are we doing over here?”

“About to be doing a whole lot better,” says Tony. He holds out his hand. “My watch?”

Natasha takes it off her wrist and tosses it to him. He catches easily with one hand, slides it on and activates the gauntlet. His right arm disappears under familiar red and gold armor and Peter’s eyes get wide as he tries to scoot the chair back in his shock. Tony seizes the armrest with his gauntlet hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Tony, “Still not Avengers enough for you?”

“What – “ Peter breathes, catches his breath. “What is that?”

“No time for explanations.” 

“But you –“ Peter looks between Tony and Nat, as if he’s putting together a complicated puzzle. His brown eyes settle on Black Widow. “You’ve had that this whole time? You could’ve – “

“Timing’s everything, kid,” says Tony. He grips the tracker with the ironclad hand. “And we’re running out of it. This might hurt a little bit.”  

He starts by trying to pry it apart from Peter’s skin, but the boy won’t quit fidgeting. One sharp look is enough to convince him to be still, to hold his arm on the desk and stop moving the chair around with his foot. Tony tries again, and he can almost see empty space between Peter’s wrist and bracelet when a loud scream escapes the kid. Peter shoots back into the chair, desperately trying to get away from his grasp and when that fails, thrashes around, uncontrollably. Tony releases him. The screams are replaced by the sound of him trying to catch his breath as he slumps back into the chair, holding his wrist close to his chest, protecting it.

“Where does it hurt?”

“E-Everywhere,” says Peter.

Tony looks to Natasha. “We need to see what we can do to loosen his lips.”

The timer ticks down to 18:29.

“Stay here,” he says to Peter, jumps off the desk and follows Nat back over to the scientist and the two soldiers. He turns his head around when he thinks of something else. “And stay awake.”

The kid looks like he might pass out at any minute, and Tony needs him conscious at least until he can remove the tracker from his wrist. After that, he supposes it might be easier if he’s knocked out. He doesn’t expect him to come with them without a fight. Saw it in his expression earlier when he made the promise Cap has such a problem with.

But Tony’s made up his mind. Peter comes with them, no matter how annoying and irritating he pretends to be.


	3. second star to the right

  1. second star to the right



Monroe’s screams are loud and desperate. They echo throughout the training room and Peter wishes he would stop, maybe control himself a little bit better, behave as he expected all his experiments to behave while being poked with needles and jabbed with knives. Peter doesn’t even know exactly what’s causing him to scream. He’s got his back turned, the computer chair shifted to look towards the wall instead of where Stark and Natasha are working, as per the request of Captain America, or Steve, as he told Peter to call him. There’s no point to this, of course, because Peter is sure he’s seen far worse, but for now, he’s happy to comply. Every time one of Monroe’s pathetic screams pierce through his ears, the gnawing ache in his stomach tightens.

It crept in shortly after Stark attempted to pry the tracker off by force. A small, dull ache at first, but since then, it’s grown, and has kept growing, into something a little more painful. He’s reminded of the time he got food poisoning from a ran down restaurant him and his parents stopped by on the way home from somewhere Peter can’t remember. Just remembers throwing up into a plastic bag in the backseat of their small car, his mom rubbing his back and how good he felt once they were home, once he was back in his own bed…

Another scream brings him back to reality. His stomach gives an unpleasant lurch.

“What are they doing to him?” asks Peter, looking to Steve and Bucky for an answer. They’re both sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall he’s being forced to look at.

“Extracting information,” replies Bucky.

Peter rolls his eyes, pushes his head deeper into the chair’s mesh backing, at the intentionally vague answer. He crosses his arms. “I’ve seen worse, I bet.”

“I’m sure you have,” says Steve.

A small, blinking red light takes Peter’s attention. The security camera icon on the computer is lighting up, prompting Peter to reangle the chair and double-click on the desktop shortcut. Live footage of the hall outside the room’s front door fills the screen. Number One stands outside the door, standing eerily still, looking directly up and into the camera. Waiting for the lockdown to lift. And he’s not the only one. A few guards, a few other kids Peter tries to steer clear of, all gathered, ready to storm in once they’re able.

Peter feels a weight on the chair and looks up to find Steve looming over him, peering at the computer monitor with him.

“Do we have company?” asks Bucky, not bothering to leave his spot on the floor.

“Yeah, but it’s nothing to worry about. They can’t get to us and we’ll be gone by the time they can.”

“Lockdown means no one comes in or out,” Peter points out, somewhat impatiently. He glances at the timer. 9:32. “It’s impossible to be gone before they get in.”

“Well, maybe.”

Peter eyes Steve suspiciously, wondering how exactly him and the rest of the Avenger think they’re getting out of here, but breaks his stare when One starts to move towards the door. He takes the lighter from his pocket, plays with the flame in the palm of his hand until it grows into a larger, wilder, ball of fire. He applies it to the side of the door where the hinges are hidden and waits patiently.

“That might actually be a problem,” says Steve, but Peter’s barely paying any attention. The pain in his stomach goes white hot, stabs at him from the inside and it takes every ounce of his focus to prevent himself from crying out. Unfortunately, Steve must have been able to read it from the pained expression on his face. “Are you doing alright?”

His stomach gives another hard twist, and this time, he can’t help gasping out loud. He double overs, slamming his forehead against the desk and clutching his abdomen with both arms. Peter stays like this for a few seconds, until a cool hand comes between his forehead and the desk, lifting his head only slightly, before gently letting it fall back down.

“You’re burning up.”

“I am?” asks Peter. He looks at Steve, but the edges of his figure blur.

“Yes.”

“I… I think I’m gonna be sick.”

LINEBREAKLINEBREAKLINEBREAK

They’re getting nowhere with Monroe.

He refuses to talk, no matter how many persuasive tactics they decide to deploy and Tony’s starting to feel the ticking clock, distracted by it again, despite the actual timer being out of his field of vision altogether. It’s almost time to signal Barton, almost time to call his suit, almost time to leave, but none of that can happen until the tracker comes off the kid. Or, at the very least, he figures out a way to get it off.

Nat’s about to try something creative when Bucky approaches, interrupting them. “We may have a problem.”

“Just what we need,” says Nat. She backs away from Monroe.

“The boy who killed the HYDRA agent is trying to break down the door,” says Bucky.

Not a problem, Tony thinks. He can’t imagine the metal security door being broken down by a boy. Even a deranged mutant one.

“And Peter is sick.”

Sure enough, Tony spots Peter kneeling on the floor, his face in a trashcan, while Steve hovers over him, rubbing his shoulder, wiping messy and hair now matted with sweat back from his eyes. Awfully convenient time to be struck with a stomach bug. Tony whirls back around on Monroe, without warning, seizes him by the throat and slams him against the wall with his iron-covered hand.

“What’s happening to him?” He demands. “I’m done asking nicely.”

Monroe gives him a twisted smile, fresh blood visible on his front teeth, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Fine,” says Tony, squeezing the man’s throat, cutting off his oxygen. “If you’re going to be completely useless, might as well finish you off.” Their eyes lock and Tony can tell, Monroe doesn’t believe him. “Don’t think I’ll do it? I’m not a thirteen-year-old boy who’s afraid to pull the trigger. You don’t wanna test me.” Seconds go by. Tony tightens his grip, ready to see the life leave his eyes, until finally, Monroe starts to panic. His arms flail, he pounds the wall and Tony loosens his hold, just enough to let the man breathe, but not properly. “Start talking.”

“…He’s dying,” says Monroe, his voice comes out raspy, still trying to breathe. “The tracker’s laced with five doses of a fast-acting poison, try to take it off, it gets inject into his body. I’m guessing you triggered one of them, but that’s enough. Five’s just a precaution. He’ll be dead in minutes.”

Tony lets him go and watches him crumple to the ground.

“Congratulations Stark,” he says. “You just killed the boy who saved your lives.”

“Except he’s not dead,” says Natasha. Her head is turned towards the computers. “He looks fine.”

Following her gaze, Tony watches Peter as he stands up straight, having an animated discussion with Steve, while frantically beckoning at the computer monitors. Tony blinks a couple of times, expecting the scene to change, but it doesn’t. Steve shakes his head at the kid, leaving Tony to wonder what they’re arguing about and how it’s possible for him to have the energy to argue, after having just been sick. As if they sense they’re being watched, Peter and Steve look over at him and the kid sprints towards where he stands with Bucky and Nat, before Steve can stop him.

“We have to open that door,” says Peter.

“Uh, no. That’s the actual opposite of what we need to do,” says Tony. He pauses and looks him over. “Do you still feel sick? You don’t feel, uh, poisoned?”

“No, I’m fine.” But he’s out of breath and his eyes keep darting back towards the door.

Tony tries to check his temperature with the back of his hand, but he ducks away. “Are you sure?”

“Well,” he admits. “My head hurts.”

“Because he slammed it against the desk,” says Steve, joining them.

“Wait,” says Peter. He takes a couple of steps back and looks down at the tracker on his wrist. His voice hitches up a couple of notches. “Why would you ask that?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer to confirm his fear. He starts pulling at the bracelet, violently, scratching his own skin in the process.

At least he’s moved on from wanting to open the door.

“Stop doing that,” orders Tony. The last thing they need is for him to accidentally trigger another dose of poison.

But the kid doesn’t hear him or pretends he doesn’t. He keeps at it until Tony steps forward in one stride, snatches his wrist away from him and holds it still. He examines the tracker again while Peter struggles against his grip, trying desperately, and in vain, to get away. It looks and feels looser, as if a screw has fallen out. A blessing and a curse, because now they are one step closer to getting it off, but also, it’s unstable. Tony’s not sure how much pressure, how much force, it will take to set if off, now that the first one is gone.

“Let me go!” He’s still trying to tug his arm away – not doing himself any favors.

“This is why I told you to keep him over there,” Tony growls at Steve and Bucky, both who seemed completely unphased.

“He’s fast,” says Steve, evenly.

“Hey, knock it off. Stop panicking,” says Tony. He makes his voice loud, booming, hoping it makes it through whatever chaos is happening inside the kid’s brain.

For a second, Tony thinks Peter didn’t heard him, but then, suddenly, he stops. Either too exhausted to carry on or finally coming to his senses. He’s still breathing heavily and the same look of terror flashes across his eyes that Tony saw just after he discovered they were the Avengers. It moves him from annoyed to pitying, reminds him of why he’s so determined to help him in the first place.

“Keep this arm still. Wrist up, like this, alright? Good. Don’t move.”

Tony lets go, but stays near, watching carefully to see if he’s going to lose it again. He doesn’t. He stands with his arm out, wrist up, like Tony showed him.

“Maybe you should just cut his hand off, feed it to a hungry crocodile and avoid all this trouble,” says Monroe, lazily, from the ground.  

“We’re not doing that,” says Tony, immediately, with a scowl, reassuring Peter to avoid another freak-out. Nat almost looks like she wants to add something, but holds back, while Steve seems to be considering whether or not he should kick Monroe’s head in, to shut him up.   

“I don’t get it. If he’s poisoned, how’s he still alive?” asks Bucky.

“Probably cause I heal faster than regular people,” says Peter. He’s staring at his arm like it’s a bomb that might go off at any moment. Tony doesn’t blame him. “It’s part of the spider bite thing.”

“Impossible,” says Monroe. “We have no record of any such ability.”

“Of course not. Why would I say anything to you about it?” asks Peter. There’s no mistaking the disgust in his words, the way in which Peter talks down to him, as if he’s both the youngest one in the room and the smartest one in the room. “So you could cut me open and time how fast I heal? No thanks. It’s not my fault you’re not observant enough to figure it out yourself.”

Tony stares at him. He’s going to want to know all about what Peter means by the spider bite thing later, especially since now he’s convinced there’s going to be a later. It all clicks into place. What he needs to do. How he’s going to free Peter from the tracker. One screw at a time. One dose of poison until it’s all gone. Poor kid’s in for a rough night, but at least when it’s over, he’s free.

“Nat,” says Tony. He pushes a button on his gauntlet. “Give Barton the signal. We’re ready for him.”

“Stark,” Monroe says. He’s looking at Peter with warmth, pride, but not because he sees an exceptionally bright boy. Because he sees his research come to light. An accidental discovery. A miracle, really, but unfortunately for Monroe, it won’t ever benefit him. “You can’t have him.”

“What?”

“He belongs to us,” says Monroe, sounding surprising strong for someone laid out on the floor. “You can’t just trespass in here and kidnap a child.”

“Oh yeah? Watch me.”

Tony would like to explain the complex differences between rescuing and kidnapping, but they would obviously be lost on Monroe.

“What? I’m not going with you,” says Peter. “That’s not the deal. You said you’d get the bracelet off!”

“To get it off, you’re going to have to come with us.”

“No. No way.” He shakes his head vehemently, but he’s also impressively careful not to move his arm.

“Sorry, kid. You don’t have a choice.”

On second thought, maybe they are kidnapping. Second hand kidnapping. Kidnapping a kid who’s already been kidnapped.

“Stark,” says Natasha. She waves him over to her, away from everyone else. Hesitantly, he steps away from Peter, shooting Steve and Bucky a warning shot, hoping they get the message that they’re suppose watch him. Keep him from doing something exceptionally stupid. Like running away or poisoning himself.

“What?”

“Maybe Monroe has a point,” she tells him. “We need to get rid of that thing the fastest way possible.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” she says, “Just listen – “

“I don’t want to hear it. You’re talking about chopping off a child’s hand.”

“To save him, to save us,” says Natasha. “What happens when we get on the jet and they follow us because they’re tracking him? What happens when they decide to push a button and kill him? You’re not thinking logically.”

“We’ll fly off course until it’s destroyed.”

“So we’re just going to what? Slowly poison him over and over until it’s gone?”

“Yes, I see what you mean. Amputating his hand clearly sounds like the better option of the two,” says Tony, dryly.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “And if they decide to end him before you get all the poison out? You’re willing to live with that on your conscience?”

“They won’t do it. Not after finding out they created a super mutant with super healing abilities,” says Tony. She doesn’t look convinced. “But if they do, then yes. I guess that one will be on me.”

* * *

Don’t move. Don’t panic. No choice.

All these words are incompatible, and yet Peter finds himself standing completely and totally still. He supposes that it’s true. He really doesn’t have a choice. He may not understand how the bracelet works, how it’s supposed to be poisoning him, but he at the very least, he trusts Stark enough to know he wouldn’t have told him to not to move if it weren’t important. And he doesn’t like it. Trusting. It feels like entering into dangerous territory.

Maybe he’s just tired. It’s easier to do what he’s told when he’s tired.

But then, out of curiosity, he zeros in on Stark and Natasha’s conversation. That’s another ability he won’t be sharing with the class anytime soon. Enhanced hearing. His last wild card. There’s a reason they put a lot of distance between him and their conversation, and Peter’s going to figure out why. He listens in, horrified at the idea of losing his hand but also not thrilled about the thought of being poisoned all night.

He’s not mad at Nat. She’s right. It makes sense. He looks at his wrist and glances over at Bucky’s metal arm. If he managed to survive losing an entire arm, losing a hand wouldn’t be so bad in comparison. Sure, he would prefer to keep it, just like he prefers to escape on his own terms, but it’s looking more and more unlikely. Stubborn as he is, determined as he is to do things on his own, he knows it’s mostly pointless to fight for that anymore.

Especially since there’s a chance he might not even survive to begin with.  

And he’s tired. So tired. His arm shakes, the infected wrist moves.

“Steady,” says Stark, back from his and Natasha’s secret discussion. She stands nearby. Her expression is unreadable, but whatever it is, it’s aimed at Stark’s back. 

Peter looks up at the retractable ceiling. It’s moving. It’s being pealed back from the center, from where the two sliding panels meet. He watches as what looks like a red and gold robot rips it away and leaves a gaping hole in the training room ceiling. Peter knows it’s no coincidence that this robot’s colors matches Stark’s weaponized hand, and so this time, he doesn’t jump when the thing comes flying straight towards them.

He is a little shocked though, when the robot comes open and Stark steps inside of it, disappearing into the armor. The faceplate goes down and Stark’s face becomes visible again, and that’s when it happens. Peter doesn’t know if it’s because the timer has finally worn down or because One succeed in his ill-advised plan to weaken the door with fire, but the door comes down, creaks off the hinges and falls flat. Led by One, hands fully aflame, the guards and the others come filing through the door, pouring into the room.

“Oh, good,” says Stark. “Is that all of you, then?”

One raises his hand, ready to blast them with fire, but he’s cut off. Stark is faster. He stretches out his arm, followed by some strange noises from his suit of armor, then a beam flies from the palm of his hand, completely demolishing the other side of the room. When the smoke clears, not one of them is left standing. Peter looks on, wide eyes, as he sees One sprawled, along with the rest of them, out on the concrete floor.

In that moment, it becomes clear to Peter how much of this situation has been a set-up. The Avengers have been playing with kid gloves, had weapons the entire time they could have been using from the get-go, but choose not to. Captured on purpose? Maybe, but Peter still doesn’t get it. They surely weren’t there for him – or any of the kids – that had been a surprise, and Peter’s willing to bet, that surprise changed their mission. Whatever their original plan had been, it hasn’t been carried out.

How could it have been? They’ve been too preoccupied with him and the tracker.  

Peter finds himself looking up at the sky again. This time it’s not a robot but a jet, slowly descending out of the star covered night sky and into the room. There’s no energy to be surprised about anything anymore, so of course there’s a jet, he thinks. Just go with it.

It lands, and Steve, Bucky and Nat waste no time moving straight for it, disappearing inside. Peter doesn’t move.

“Better hurry,” says Stark. “They’ll be more of them coming.”

He glances back at where the door used to be, where everyone lays unconscious. Earlier he pleaded with Captain America to help him force the door open, fight past One, in order to help the kids he’s afraid to leave behind. He looks back at Monroe, who’s done talking. He only offers narrowed eyes and a frown in return. How are his friends going to survive without him? Who’s going to bring them food and stuck up for them against One and the others?

“I could force you into the jet,” Stark warns him, “But you’ll just poison yourself in the struggle.”

Peter tilts his head. Words coming out before he can stop them. “Isn’t that the plan anyway?”

“Did you –“ Stark starts, then stops, seems to change his mind. He points a finger at him. “We’re going to sit down and talk about all the abilities these whack jobs accidentally gave you later, but for now, just get in the jet. Please.”

So much for keeping one last thing to himself. Well played, but he’s too tired to even properly criticize himself and way too tired to appreciate the idea of being poisoned all night, while being several hundred miles into the air.

“We’ll come back for the others, I promise,” says Stark.

“Yeah, okay,” says Peter. Too tired for any more discussion.

He follows Ironman across the room and into the jet, keeping his arm still. He looks back at Monroe one last time. When he first arrived at the facility, the man towered over him like a monster, but now he’s just an old man laying crippled on the floor. And it is a little comical.


	4. and straight on til' mourning

  1. and straight on ‘til mourning



“Pick up a stray, Stark?”

Tony shoots Clint with a glare and continues moving to the back of the quinjet, looking over his shoulder to make sure Peter’s still following him. Barely. If Tony thought he looked tired before, he looks double that now and it’s showing in the way he moves. Sluggish and slow and nothing at all like the boy he watched destroy the HYDRA agent just hours ago.

He directs him to take a seat on the floor and Peter listens, collapsing instantaneously on the floor. Tony sits next to him, ready to begin, ready to start what he’s sure is going to be a slow, probably painful, process of removing the tracker. His eyes meet Natasha’s. She’s still looking at him in a disapproving way. Still thinking her plan is less risky and therefore a better plan. Steve nods his support, understanding, but Bucky’s looking towards Peter. He leaves them, heads off to the front of the jet to keep Clint company. Uneasy, unsettled and unable to watch. 

Tony wishes he had the luxury.

He faintly hears Bucky instructing Clint to fly in circles for a while as the jet lifts out of the research facility. Once they are up and off, he reaches out to take Peter’s wrist, to start, but Steve had been right. He is fast. He pulls it away and clutches it to his chest.

“Do we have to… do that now?” He seems smaller. More like his actual age, less like some sort of child solider. The tough guy act melting away, the mask slipping a little bit more.

“The longer we wait, the riskier it gets,” says Tony. “Gives them more time to think. If they decide to set it off, you’ll be dosed with four times the amount of poison it takes to kill a normal human. We know you can survive one, but you won’t survive four. Not all at once.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He holds onto his wrist more tightly. 

“Maybe… we should, just, cut it off.”

Tony gives Nat a pointed look.  

“Do you want to give Monroe the satisfaction?”

“I don’t want to die,” he says, clear.

“No one is dying tonight, I promise,” says Tony. Steve raises an eyebrow at him, probably counting all the promises he’s made tonight that he has no grounds to keep. It’s a gamble, at best, because if Monroe decides to end Peter’s life, decides him being with the Avengers is worse than losing his most successful research project, than there’s nothing Tony or any of the others can do, except watch him die.

What is it about this kid that makes him keep promising things not even his bank accounts can make good on? He shakes the thought away, allows himself to consider for a moment switching to Natasha’s plan, but then, his determination is back. He’s right about this. He knows it. Monroe will not pull the trigger. He’s plotting ways to steal the boy back, not kill him.

“Fine, just… do it,” he says, resigned. He holds out his wrist, Tony flips his faceplate on and scans the tracker. Getting a good idea of what it looks like on the inside before he starts working again.

It’s all black, just like the outside, except with flour blue pins. They look as if they go all the way through the inner side of the bracelet, which means Tony had been right about one thing. It’s rooted into him, attached by the pins or needles or whatever they are that will spring into action whenever Monroe decides he’s no longer needed and pushes a button, or in this case, whenever someone tries to pry the thing off. There’s a gap of space where the fifth one should be. The one he triggered accidentally earlier in the evening and sent into Peter’s bloodstream.

He grabs the tracker, fingers on top of where a blue pin lays inside of it and begins to pull, far more gently than the first time, until he sees it disappear. Peter lets out a gasp of pain, prompting a what-the-hell-are-you-guys-doing-to-that-poor-kid from Clint as he steers them onwards into the night.

Tony flips the faceplate back down. “Two down.”

Peter rests his head against the wall of the quinjet. Misery and apprehension stretched across his face. No doubt waiting for the oncoming fever and stomach pains.

Steve looks down at his feet.

Natasha provides Peter with a plastic bag. 

And then they wait it out.

Tony’s thoughts drift to Norman Osborn. Although he’d never admit it out loud, Natasha may be right about it being an obsession. Sparked by a hunch. He knew that bastard was up to something. Knew from overhearing bits of conversations from various charity events and galas. Knew from silently slipping into the back row of one of his university talks about genetic modification. And the TedTalk. They’ll let anyone do a TedTalk these days. He’d watched it on YouTube nine times, driving Pepper crazy, going back and forth between his and Osborn’s, making sure his still has more views. It does, last time he checked.  

He watches Peter grimacing in pain, trying unsuccessfully to hide it. He wishes he’d started his investigation sooner. Years sooner. Wishes this mission hadn’t been a failure. They rescued the boy, sure or maybe – if he survives, but who knows how many other kids they left behind. And who knows what Osborn will do with them once he learns the Avengers have broken into his supposedly top-secret research facility and made off with one. A bunch of dead kids. No way Osborn would leave evidence like that laying around, least the government gets involved. That’s another promise Tony’s not sure he can keep. Saving the other kids. They can’t repeat this process. Not unless the rest of the kids were also accidentally gifted with special healing abilities.

“I… I think it’s over now,” says Peter, breaking Tony away from his thoughts.

He frowns. That’s too fast.

“You didn’t throw up,” Tony points out.

“Maybe I’m getting immune to it?” asks Peter, hopefully more than decidedly.

“Maybe. Are you ready for round three?”

He nods his head, and Tony doesn’t waste any time. There’s not a lot of it to waste. The faceplate goes back up. He pulls at the tracker and another small needle disappears into Peter’s arm. He doesn’t make a sound this time, and Tony’s beginning to wonder if he’s right. Maybe he is getting immune to it. It certainly makes the risk dial down. Makes Tony more confident in gambling with the boy’s life.

The pressure, the anxiety of the waiting, it’s all easing off at the idea that Peter’s system is learning to deal with the poison quickly and effectively, but it comes back with a force in under a second. Tony watches something his expression change, turn stony and then, he screams. Louder, less controlled and more desperate than before in the training room. He curls in on himself, writhing around on the floor, clawing at the tracker on his wrist. 

Peter stops moving, but only because he begins gagging, trying too hard to breath and failing. A few seconds like this go by until he finally gets a good breath, then another, then another. His breathing evens out, but he’s still working way too hard for it. As confident as he was before, it’s completely disappeared now. He’s killed the kid by refusing to cut off his hand, and when he looks to the boy’s wrist and he sees the tracker is completely loose, ready to be pulled off now, he’s even more sure of it. 

Monroe had pushed the button. Made the decision to end his life from miles away.

Peter goes completely still, but twitches every now and then, lays his head against the floor. His eyes are glossy, watery and spent, and then Tony can’t see them anymore. Peter closes them, shuts them tight. Carefully, Tony reaches out, removes the bracelet, revealing a bloody and scabby wrist underneath and holds it in front of his eyes. It’s not impressive. Just a simple piece of technology, with a disastrous outcome.

He crushes it.

Then he looks back to the kid. He’s breathing better already. Apparent immunity and fast healing saving him. He’s going to survive, no thanks to Tony. He’d been wrong. About Monroe and if it hadn’t been for those ridiculous healing abilities, he’d be dead. Still guilty, still unsure, Tony lays his hand on Peter’s back, needing to feel his chest moving up and down for himself.

“He’s okay?” asks Steve.

“Just sleeping,” says Tony. “Tell Barton to quit flying us around in circles and take us home.”

Back to the compound with a renewed obsession. And this time Tony’s out for blood.

* * *

Peter wakes up in a strange place. He’s in a room he’s never seen before, and on top of a bed he’s definitely never slept on before. He’d remember sleeping on a bed a soft as this one. The walls are white, instead of grey, but it’s not the blinding sort of white. Or maybe it just seems that way, because the lights are dimmed and there’s a curtain drawn over the window, which spans across the entire wall and reaches from the top of the ceiling all the way down to the floor.

Now that he looks around, it sort of resembles a hospital room. There’s medical equipment, at least, and there’s an IV stuck in his arm, which reminds him. He lifts up his arm and examines his wrist. There’s white bandages wrapped around where the tracker used to be. He stares for a minute, not daring to believe, before moves it around, twisting it, celebrating his freedom. It’s gone. And he’s alive. He looks down again. And he’s has both his hands attached.

He should probably thank Tony Stark for not listening to him.

Outside, rain hits the window and it’s a sound Peter didn’t realize he missed until that moment. It’s been so long since he’s been near a window, close enough to hear what’s going on outside, but even without the rain and the relaxing sound it makes as it pounds the glass, he feels good. Better than good. He looks at the medicine bag that his IV is connected with. Whatever they are pumping him with, he doesn’t ever want it to stop.

“Mr. Parker.”

Peter turns his head towards the left, fast, surprised not by the man entering the room, but by his last name. It’s a forgotten relic. Lost with time. He’s happy to find it again.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says. He’s carrying a tablet, but he’s not dressed like a doctor. There’s no white coat. He’s wearing a suit jacket over a plain blue button-up shirt and jeans. “FRIDAY told me you were awake.”

“Who’s FRIDAY?” he asks, weakly. 

“Tony’s AI,” he answers.

“How long have I been asleep?” It’s the first thing that springs to his mind.

“FRIDAY?” asks the man.

A voice seemingly comes from nowhere, yet everywhere, all at once. “Mr. Parker has been asleep for approximately thirty-two hours and fourteen minutes.”

He must look a little overwhelmed, because the not-doctor shoots him with, “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

He doesn’t care about that. He’s more preoccupied with the fact he’s been asleep for thirty-two hours. Maybe that’s why he feels so good. Maybe this is what it feels like for regular people, those lucky people who sleep normally and through the night, without getting interrupted by nightmares or by people coming through their doors.

“I’m Bruce, by the way,” says the man.

“Peter,” he replies, dazed, and yet at the same time, realizing there wasn’t any need to introduce himself. His eyes drift back over towards the IV line. “What are you giving me?”

“Nutrients,” says Bruce, gravely. He sits on the rolling stool next to Peter’s bed. “Tony told me you said something about healing faster, that’s why you thought you could fight off the poison, but I think it’s more than that. Your metabolism moves incredibly fast. It burned through the poison so quickly it was out of your system before I could even run tests on it to see what exactly it was. Did you know?”

Peter shakes his head slowly. He didn’t know, but it does make sense. He’s not used to adults making sense. Not since his parents died.

“You were severely malnourished and dehydrated when you got here,” he continues, checking something on the tablet. “But your levels are fine now. Any complaints? Concerns? Feeling okay?”

“I feel great,” says Peter.

“Good,” he says. “Tony left some fresh clothes for you in the bathroom – it’s behind you. Let me get you disconnected from this thing and why don’t you grab a shower? Then I’m going to need you to try and eat some real food, sound good?”

Peter nods and waits silently while Bruce removes the IV from his arm, then rolls out of bed, bare-feet hitting the cold, linoleum floor. The door to the connecting bathroom is exactly where he told him it would be. He enters, switches on the light and shuts the door behind him. Some clothes turn out to be an understatement. There’s a mountain of clothes, with the tags still attached, stacked on top of the counter. He searches through them. All lounging clothes. Apparently, they don’t plan on him leaving anytime soon.

He turns on the water and begins to undress, starting with the black sweatpants he’s been wearing for way too long now. Something falls from his pocket and hits the tile floor. Monroe’s watch sits by his feet. Seems like a lifetime ago that he’d shouted at the man to take it off and kick it over to him. Slowly he picks it up and looks it over. The battery is drained. He looks around, up at the ceiling, wondering if the AI would know if he kept secrets, before stashing the watch in the middle of the clothes pile.

He unwraps the bandage around his wrist and discards it in the trash. There’s no trace of anything having ever been there. No cuts. No scraps or scars. Nothing. Completely healed. Just like that.

Peter spends longer in the shower than he should, enjoying the impressive water pressure, savoring in the hot water, until he thinks maybe his skin might start peeling and gets out. He rips the tags off a pair of sweatpants and a shirt, trying to ignore the ridiculous price listed on them, and puts them on. Was it normal for things to cost that much? Peter once got twenty dollars from his Uncle Ben on his seventh birthday. It seemed like a lot of money then, and these clothes cost three times that much. Maybe twenty dollars is only a lot for seven-year-olds. Maybe the world marched on and left him behind.

He dumps the tags in the trash, along with his old clothes and runs a towel through his hair. He reclaims Monroe’s watch, putting it back into his pocket, before stepping back out into the room. It’s not a hospital room, he decides. Bruce didn’t introduce himself as a doctor. There are no nurses, no foot traffic in the hall outside his room. It’s quiet, besides the sound of the rain still pitter-pattering against the window.

He looks over it at again, the window that covers the entire right wall the of room and decides getting a good look at the outside might tell him something about where he is. Peter walks over, opens the curtains and is instantly surprised by the amount of light that floods through the room. It’s bright outside and the sun is still visible through the golden stained rainclouds.

It’s sunny and rainy, at the same time.

_“Don’t forget it.”_

The memory is fresh and unbidden.

Peter takes several steps backwards, no longer interested in viewing his surroundings. His imagination conjures up images of Laney laid out on a cold, metal table, of her fighting with the guards, with One, yelling for her parents, yelling for him, to help her. His wrist twitches. He guesses it’s only healed on the outside. Is it okay to be angry for her, or maybe he should cry for her? He cried for his parents. He cried for his aunt and uncle, but he’d been younger then. Now he knows it doesn’t do any good.

“They call it a sun-shower here.”

He turns and sees a familiar face. Natasha enters his room holding a plain white box with both hands. The box has a pair of silver scissors sitting on top of it.

“But they call it Orphan’s Tears around where I grew up. They say the rain represents the tears of the lost children and the sun is the grandmother drying them.”

“It doesn’t represent anything,” says Peter, distant, returning his stare to the window. “It’s just what happens when the sun’s angled weird in proportion to the clouds.”

An awkward silence. He hears her shoes move across the floor.

“I’m glad to see you up and walking around. Last time I saw you I was pretty sure you were dead.”

Peter turns, shrugs at her, before sitting back down on the bed. The flight from the facility is fuzzy. He remembers the pain the most, the worried look across Tony Stark’s face after he started screaming, a heavy hand on his back. Then nothing.

“I thought so, too,” he offers.

Natasha smiles at him. A controlled, intentional smile. “I brought presents. I wanted to properly thank you for not shooting me.”

“You don’t have to,” starts Peter, but the words get messed up on his tongue, so he tries again. “You don’t have to pretend like I did you a favor. I know it was just an act.”

“An act?” she repeats.

“Yeah,” says Peter. “You had that crazy, armor watch thing – you could have stopped him, could have stopped me if I tried anything. Why pretend? 

“It’s true,” she says, slowly, still sizing him up, “that I could have dealt with the first boy. Not because of Tony’s gauntlet.” She holds up a finger, making that part especially clear. “I went easy on him. He’s a child, like you, you know but he caught me off guard when his hands turned into fire. I didn’t wake up until I heard you shouting.”

“Oh,” says Peter. Processing. He doesn’t think she’s lying. Maybe. And he wants to bring up the fact that Stark, did in fact, shoot some sort of crazy, but kind of awesome, beam at One and his gang, but doesn’t. In Peter’s opinion, One deserves a lot worse than that.

“Now,” she says, back to business. She sets the scissors down on the rolling table and opens the lid to the white box. The smell of frosting fills the room. “Steve told me it’s your birthday.”

Monroe’s monotone voice comes back to him. _“Fourteen in two days_.”

It feels like it’s been longer than that.

The cake inside the white box is nothing like the ones his mother used to bake for him. She used a square pan and they always put the icing on together. Always too much, or at least that’s what his father would say. Peter agreed with his mom. There’s never enough icing. This cake is from a bakery. It’s round and it’s covered in chocolate, brown fluffy icing. It smells perfect, so strong, he can practically taste it already. He lets the smell lead him closer, craning his neck to get a better look, but before he can, Nat shuts the lid.

“But first we need to take care of that hair,” she tells him, putting down the box and picking up the scissors. “That’s present number two.”

He eyes the scissors, fixating on the pointy ends. A good rule of survival. Anything that can be used as a weapon, will be used as a weapon.

“If I wanted to stab you, I would have already done it. And you wouldn’t have seen it coming.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

But in the end, Peter allows her to cut his hair. She’s fast and effective, and when he looks in the mirror, he notices he does look a little bit older. His hair is shorter, off of his forehead and away from his eyes, but it’s not so short it exposes his ears. She did a good job, and by the time Peter returns from the bathroom mirror, the scissors have disappeared completely. Nat throws a fork at him, which he catches easily, and they spend the rest of her visit eating birthday cake straight from the box. 

Once they finish and Peter’s stomach hurts from eating too much cake, Nat gets up from the bed to leave.

“Wait,” he says, stopping her. “I’m older now. How about you tell me that story?”  

“What story?”

“How you got the name Black Widow.”

She laughs, but she still doesn’t tell him. Maybe next year.


	5. we own the night

  1. we own the night 



The silence is crushing him. 

It’d been nice, at first, and so different than being back in his room at the facility, where there was always some sort of commotion. Always a possibility of being jerked awake by somebody screaming, or someone coming into his room uninvited to bother him or ask for help. Now he sort of wishes someone would come into his room. He wants the company despite feeling threatened by it.

Anything’s better than sitting awake with nothing to do, with no place for his thoughts to run except into the dark past, or the uncertain future. Peter doesn’t know which is worse, but he knows he doesn’t like thinking about either of them. Back at the facility, it’d been easy to distract himself, coming up with elaborate escape plots or sneaking around, stealing food, helping the other kids, when he could.

Here it’s just quiet. No distractions, at least now that he’s supposed to be sleeping. No escape plans are needed, stealing isn’t necessary for survival and there’s nobody to help, except for himself and he’s never been very good at that.

During the day, there’d be plenty of distractions. After Natasha left him with a fresh haircut and a stomach ache from too much sugar way too soon, Steve and Bucky came, armed with the real food Bruce had been referring to, which involved lots of steamed vegetables and roasted chicken. He devoured it. It’d almost been better than the cake. Almost. And to his relief, there’d been no talk about the training room, Monroe or the ride on the jet. He got the impression that they, just like himself, were pretty tired of thinking about it. Instead, they humored him with war stories, and other stories, of Steve’s pre-Captain America days, of how Bucky ended up with a metal arm.

They’d only been gone thirty minutes when Nat came back, but this time, with a friend. Clint, the man who piloted the jet, brought him his Nintendo Switch and let him borrow it.

“Something to do, while you’re stuck in here,” he explained, then showed him how to play Fortnite.

He tried it for a while, but quickly grew frustrated.

“I could take any of these guys down in real life,” he’d said, to an amused Nat and Clint, after being killed for the fifth time.

The Nintendo still sits on his bedside table, and he’s tempted by it. Could help him sleep, but then his eyes move towards the door. Bruce left it open, after telling FRIDAY to kill the lights and suggesting that he get some rest. A soft glow spills in from the hallway, and he’s also tempted by that. In comparison to being eliminated over and over again in Fortnite, it’s a lot more appealing. Video games are waste of time, but exploring, getting to know his surroundings, which he found out from Steve is the Avengers’ compound, could be useful.

Peter sits up in his bed and looks around the room, particularly at the ceiling and the corners of the wall. Can FRIDAY see him? He suspects the AI will tell on him if he leaves, but he doesn’t see how it’s possible. How can something see without eyes? There’s no cameras here, at least, as far as he can see. He sighs, and lets himself fall back down, head sinking into the pillows.

He tries to convince himself he can sleep like a normal person. He forces his eyes shut, turns in the bed, only to turn to the other side seconds later. He readjusts the comforter, he burrows his head under the pillows, he even resorts to turning on the Nintendo Switch, only to power it back down before the game even has time to load. Torture. This is torture.

Peter turns over again, but this time, something digs into the side of his leg, a realization coming over him. He retrieves Monroe’s smart watch from his pocket and looks it over again. It’s useless without a charge, and it’s got a weird shaped charging port. He briefly wonders if he can configure the Switch’s charger into something that might work, but then he gets another idea.

“FRIDAY,” he says. “Where’s Mr. Stark?" 

Out of everyone, he’s the only one who’s remained mysteriously absent since Peter woke up from his thirty-two-hour nap. Something unexplainable, close to a panic, happens in his chest when he realizes the man may not even be at the compound.

“Mr. Stark is currently in his suite. Would you like me to call him for you?”

“No,” says Peter. He’s already throwing off his covers and putting his feet on the ground. “Can you direct me to him, instead?”

“It is strongly recommended that you stay in bed, as per Dr. Banner’s request,” says FRIDAY.

“Just recommended? Not ordered?”

“Correct.” 

He pulls on some socks. “Please direct me to Mr. Stark.”

“Very well.”

Peter pauses, one hand on the wall near the door. It could be a mistake. He’d lose everything if he hands over Monroe’s watch and Stark sends him back to bed empty handed, without letting him see what’s inside it. The watch is the last item that’s his, the very last thing he’s brought with him from the facility. Maybe he’s better off figuring it out himself and playing it safe.

He looks at his hand, tracker free and still attached to his body. If Stark would have played it safe, he wouldn’t be looking at his hand right now.

He takes a breath and steps out the door.

* * *

Bruce finds Natasha on the main balcony, lounging on one of the couches with a half-empty glass of whiskey in her hand, watching the night sky. There’s a damp breeze in the air leftover from all the rain and when he walks outside to join her, it combs through his hair. He pulls his jacket closer to him after sliding the door shut. For a night in the dead of summer, it’s slightly chilly. And a bad night for stargazing. Too many clouds. There’s nothing up there to see, except blackish-greyish swirls.

“Two visits in one day,” he says. “That boy must really be special.”

Nat looks at him, acknowledges his presence, then goes back to looking straight ahead. “How is he doing?”

“Really well, all things considered,” he says. “I sent him to bed.”

“He won’t stay.”

“So I’ve been warned,” says Bruce. “FRIDAY is watching him. She’s going to keep me updated.”

The conversation stalls out, if it can even be called a conversation, and Bruce runs a frustrated hand through his hair. These talks, or non-talks, he’s dubbed them because of the lack of actual information exchanged, have been becoming all too common since the five Avengers returned back from what was supposed to be a simple, cut-and-dry, mission. He’d been told only what had been necessary after they arrived, with an unconscious child thrown over Steve’s shoulder. Tony barked at him to keep the boy alive, then retreated, leaving him only with a few strange details before disappearing into his suite.

He walks towards the railing and looks out at the big, empty lawn, drops of water glistening off blades of grass. Another breeze brings more chills, but also, a blast of freshness, the kind of smell only experienced after it rains.

“What the hell happened over there, Nat?” asks Bruce. He starts pacing, the frustration of being kept in the dark apparently bubbling up, suddenly, as if it came from nowhere. “Why do I have a boy in medical who has the metabolism that rivals the super solider? And why is Tony spazzing out in his suite? He’s locked himself up there, you know, and he hasn’t come out. Have you been up there? It’s a mess. Piles of paper and mismatched parts to half-made gadgets everywhere.”

“Tony’s just regressed back to the Osborn obsession,” she explains, as though it’s obvious. “He’s trying to find something to connect him with New Life.”

“Steve dodged me earlier in the hall,” Bruce keeps going, because maybe it’s normal for Tony to go off the radar for a while, but it doesn’t explain the others. “And when I tried to ask Bucky what happened, he just turned around and walked the other way without saying a word.”

“Bucky’s cagey on a good day.”

“Yeah,” says Bruce. He stops his pacing, turns and looks at her. “And what about you? You… that boys got you feeling practically maternal. You gave him cake and a haircut, and I’m supposed to believe everything’s okay?”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t hear him screaming,” she says, as a way of excusing curious behavior. “And you’re not supposed to believe everything’s okay. A girl died.”

“Oh,” he says, deflating a little bit, the frustration drains from him almost immediately. There’s a story there she’s not telling, but it’s something at least. “How… how old, was the girl?”

“I don’t know,” she says. She takes a sip from the whiskey. “Her name was Laney.”

Bruce sighs, and sits down on the chair across from Natasha. There’s a glass coffee table separating them. “When I worked in India, we lost people all the time. It was always harder, though, when it was a child.” 

“It’s different when they die because a freak in a lab coat decides the experiment is over.” 

“Yeah,” says Bruce, thoughts moving faster than his mouth. “That’s… so that’s what they’re doing, then? Experimenting on kids?”

“Yes,” she says. She puts her drink down on the coffee table, and sits up, back against the couch but head up, eyes boring into his. The intensity used to make him want to look away. Now he’s brave enough to stare back. “We can’t do anything to save them until we figure out a way to counteract the poison.”

Bruce wishes he could tell her he’s figured it out, but after running test after test, he still doesn’t know. The sample Tony gave him wasn’t ideal. It was just several broken pieces of black metal and there wasn’t much of the poison left on there to amount to anything concrete. If it had been a known substance, something commonly used, maybe it’d be a different story, but Bruce is leaning towards a scarier hypothesis, this is an Oscorp creation. It will take time and patient and lots of coffee to break down the ingredients.

“I’ll figure it out,” he says, but he’s not altogether confident he will. He wants to be. “But in the meantime, at least you guys got one out, right? That counts for something.”

“Dr. Banner,” FRIDAY’s voice comes over the intercom, interrupting whatever Nat opened her mouth to say. “Mr. Parker has gotten out of bed and has left his room.”

Bruce checks his watch. “He lasted longer than I thought. Where’s he headed?”

“I am directing him to Mr. Stark’s suite. Should I reroute him?”

“No, let him go,” says Nat. She picks her whiskey back up, swirls it around. “It will be good for him, and by him, I mean Tony.”

“Very well.”

Bruce slips her a smile. “Are you sure that’s wise? Subjecting him to that?”

“Can’t be worse than anything else he’s been through.” 

* * *

Norman Osborn is a man with many secrets. Unfortunately, he’s also a man good at keeping them and Tony’s caught under their riptide, trying to untangle them and finding himself drowning in a sea articles and academic journals. He’s even watched the idiotic Vice interview he swore to never watch again. Anything with Osborn’s name attached to it is fair game. Papers, multiple laptops and tablets litter the bar attached to his kitchen. He sits on a barstool, hunched over, eyes barely working under the dim lighting while they pour over the text of a very boring biography.

He’s stuck on a page one. A quote from Norman is posted under a photo.

_Out of all of my achievements, I consider my son, Harry, the highlight of them all._

It’s the only thing Norman has and Tony doesn’t. A son.

The picture features Norman kneeling down with his arm around a young boy. Both smiling. A happy father and son duo. Harry’s dressed in a suit designed to make him look like a miniature grown-up. It’s dated, though, and once Tony does the math, he figures Harry Osborn is about Peter’s age by now. Norman Osborn, the kind of man to torture kids in private, while teaching his own child to run the family business in front of the cameras.

In an alternate world, one of those abstract concepts Bruce always talks about, maybe Harry would be the one getting strapped to tables and experimented on or screaming in pain on the quinjet until he passes out. Norman can’t see that. It makes him as stupid as Monroe.

Among the items littering Tony’s bar is a single bottle of liquor, the very best money can buy, but it’s been forgotten, unopened and untouched. An empty, clean glass sits next to it. He’d gotten it out hours earlier and since then, has forgotten about that, too. Next to the bottle, his phone buzzes and vibrates. Pepper Potts is calling. He ignores the call, prompting a push notification to inform him he’s now missed three. They’re all from Pepper. A text message lights up the screen next. Telling him off, but he doesn’t reply to that, either.

He’ll smooth it over tomorrow when he heads back to the New York penthouse they both share. Getting away from the compound will clear his head. He’s really starting to lose it.

The madness comes from knowing all of this, all his efforts, are worthless. It’s old information. There’s nothing here that ties Oscorp to the New Life Research Facility, but he can’t stop himself from engaging in the search, thinking this time he’ll see something different, he’ll find something new -

“Sir, Mr. Parker is requesting access to your suite.” FRIDAY interrupts his thoughts, and he lets out an audible growl. Bruce had two jobs. Keep the boy alive and keep him out of trouble.

“Send him up.”

Moments later, the doors to the elevator come open and Peter steps out into the suite, looks around, until he finally spots him sitting at the bar. He walks further into the room, gets to a halfway point between Tony at the bar and the elevator, and looks around again. A disapproving, unimpressed frown forms on his face.

“What happened in here?”

“Research,” he replies.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going very well.” He kicks at a broken, failed prototype on the floor, sending it across the room and into the kitchen.

Tony lets out an annoyed breath. He rubs his temple. “Kid, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, well,” he says, shuffling his feet, but stays in the same place. “I… I just wanted to say thank you… for not cutting off my hand.”

Tony studies him. He looks better, healthier, already and Nat did a good job with the haircut, but there’s still something wrong about his face. It doesn’t match the words that left his mouth. The boy is awful liar, and it’s both surprising and refreshing for someone who’s been living in hell for a chuck of his childhood.

“Nope. Not buying it. Try again.”

Peter’s eyes dart back to the elevator, like he’s about to flake out on him and Tony’s ready to give FRIDAY the order to freeze the room, but he seems to regain his control. He tilts his head towards the floor and fishes something from his pocket. A smart watch. Monroe’s, to be exact and Tony had forgotten all about him having it.

“The battery’s dead,” he says. “Maybe we could charge it and see what’s there?”

It’s an easy hack, he bets, and probably a wealth of information. Peter has no idea what he’s holding, absolutely clueless to the fact he’s just stumbled into Tony’s suite with exactly the one thing he desperately needs, new information. The kind best. Insider information. But the clock on his phone reminds him it’s pushing one in the morning. Peter should be in bed, and a decision needs to be made.

It’s not a hard decision. Tony’s incapable of making him leave when he’s standing in the middle of the room looking so… lost. 

“Bring it over here,” he says. He pulls out the stool next to him. “And have a seat.”

He’s still hesitant, but Peter closes the gap between them and climbs up on the stool. He lays the watch on the table, but he doesn’t remove his hand from on top of it. Tony waits silently for whatever battle he’s having with his thoughts to end, pretending he doesn’t notice the struggle, and after Peter comes around, lifting his hand and letting go, he lets several seconds tick away before moving in on the watch.

He picks it up, glances at the charge port before putting it back down and jumping away from the table to get the necessary equipment. When he returns to the bar, he finds Peter with the bottle of amber colored alcohol in his hands, looking into it.

“No,” says Tony, spilling all of his gear out onto the table.

“My metabolism is so fast, how much do you think it would take to get me drunk?”

“We’re not testing it.” He snatches the bottle away from him, although he does admit, only to himself, he’s slightly curious. He looks back at Peter in time to see him pulling a face filled with teenaged attitude. Directed at him. Perfect.

Tony goes to work on the watch. He plugs it into a power source, then plugs that into one of his homemade devices, so the contents can be projected into the air. With his thumb, he pushes down the power button and the Oscorp logo appears in blue text above the bar’s table.

“Whoa,” says Peter, head up, watching the Oscorp logo blink as the watch loads, blue specs of light dancing across his face.

They’re greeted with a menu Tony scrolls with his thumb, using the projection as guidance. The very last item is the one that interests him the most, and when he taps on it, the face of the boy whose hands controlled fire appears with a big number one off in the corner. There’s a watermark behind his picture. Active. The repulsor beam, apparently, hadn’t killed him. Tony side wipes. More pictures of kids. It’s not until number seven that the watermark changes from active to terminated. Peter’s looking down. He becomes very interested in the empty glass and begins to employ it in his fidgeting.

Tony keeps going and eventually it’s Peter’s face staring back at him. Younger and angrier. Terminated.

“They think I’m dead,” says Peter, looking up again, spinning the glass with his index finger.

“That’s a good thing, trust me,” says Tony. “They’re not looking for you.”

A morbid need to get to the end of the list keeps Tony’s thumb side swiping through the photos. When he gets to number nineteen, the glass shatters on the floor beneath their feet. A young girl with black hair. Terminated. He doesn’t have to see the crushed look on Peter’s face to realize her name was Laney. It makes it worse. Seeing her face there and knowing her name. He guesses that’s why Peter had been denied his name for so long. It makes it easier for Monroe to kill him.

“I shouldn’t have gotten involved,” he says. His voice is calm. “Playing at super hero only gets people killed.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?" 

Peter shrugs and his thumbs battle each other now that the glass is gone. He doesn’t look at Tony.

“Get up.”

“What?”

Tony stands up quickly, fueled by some emotion he doesn’t have a name for, grabs the tablet featuring Norman’s very boring life with one hand and pulls Peter off the barstool with the another, marching him into the living room. He pushes him into the couch and he falls back onto some papers he quickly removes from underneath him and shoves away.

“Let’s get one thing straight. That –“ He points to Laney’s picture back in the bar. Peter’s eyes don’t follow. They stare back up at Tony, wide and questioning. “Isn’t your fault. You were in an unfair situation and there wasn’t anything you could have done. He killed her to mess with your head, because he wanted to push you into killing Natasha, to prove to us he could get you to do it.” It gets quiet. Tony doesn’t let it last long. “Obviously, it backfired.”

“But I –“

“You want to assign blame,” says Tony. He pushes the tablet on Peter, forcing him to look at Norman Osborn. “You wanna know whose fault this is? You’re looking at him.”

“Norman Osborn?” he reads, weakly. He looks back up at Tony, and he confirms with a nod. “He’s… he’s the overseer.”  

Tony blinks a couple of times. “Explain.”

“The guy with the funds,” says Peter, attempting to clarify. “Monroe talks about him… terrified of him, actually, but he’s never used his actual name.”

“Plausible deniability.”

“I guess so,” says Peter. He squints at the tablet. “I can’t believe that’s him. He just looks so much like – “

“-a tool?”

“I was going to say goblin.”

Tony barks out a laugh. “Goblin?”

“Yeah. Like from Harry Potter. The ones that guard the wizard bank.”

He shakes his head at the reference, about to criticize magic movies but he catches Laney’s picture out of the corner of his eyes. He walks back to the bar, while Peter stays put on the couch, and powers down the watch. Laney’s face disappears. They’ve both had enough of that for the night. Tomorrow he’ll begin the hunt for information again, this time without the kid, if he can manage it.

Tony takes his time sweeping up the broken glass, tossing it in the trash, before heading back over to join Peter, who, by the time Tony gets back to him, is fast asleep, tablet laying across his chest. He checks his watch. 1:43 AM. That didn’t take long. With a sigh, he locates a spare blanket, unfolds it and lays it across him, but not before gently reclaiming his tablet. He settles down in the armchair. Once again, just him and Norman Osborn.

The same picture greets him. Apparently, Peter couldn’t get past page one, either.

Tony looks at Harry Osborn. He supposes he has more in common with him than the boy sleeping across from him. Both raised by famous, rich men, in the spotlight. There are quite a few of his father’s secrets Tony will take with him to the grave, despite their troubled relationship and he wonders if Harry feels the same way.

Peter turns in his sleep. Tony looks between him and the picture a couple of times, back and forth, back and forth, plan forming and folding out in his mind.

Perhaps in another universe Peter and Harry were friends. It wouldn’t be terribly strange. Two bright teenage boys around the same age. And secrets are passed between friends, especially high schoolers with unlimited access to the internet and very limited self-control.

Enrolling Peter in the same school as Harry would be simple.

Teaching him how to be a regular, fourteen-year-old boy, though might be difficult. Getting the rest of the team to agree with turning Peter into high school super-spy would give him even more trouble.

Tony gets up from the armchair and takes out his phone. He’s going to have to call Pepper after all, because his return to New York just got delayed several weeks.


	6. the happy home

  1. the happy home



Natasha is both surprised and suspicious when she’s permitted entrance to Tony’s suite without much of an argument. Usually it takes a little pestering and persistence to get the man to let someone into his space, especially when he’s like this, head under the water of Norman Osborn’s life and lies and refusing to come up to catch a breath.

When the elevator doors open, she sees Bruce hadn’t been exaggerating about the mess occupying the suite. It’s exactly as he described, and it isn’t lost on Nat that it’s probably even worse now than it was before. There’s a piece of some kind of electronic part laying in the middle of the kitchen floor near where Tony sits at the table. He doesn’t look up to greet her as she approaches. His eyes are inside the glass of his laptop’s screen and he thumbs through a smart watch connected to the computer by a USB cable.

“It’s a little early for a visit, don’t you think?”

“It’s nearly noon,” she points out. She places the Stark Industries issued tablet down on the kitchen table and pushes it close to Tony, nudging the hand holding the watch and causing him to cut her with a glare. It’s gone quickly, replaced by a knowing smirk once he sees the email she’s showing him.

She knew he would recognize it. He’s the one who sent it.

“What the hell is this?”

“Looks like a job application… Midtown Science and Tech, that’s a good school, Nat. Thinking of joining the 9 to 5 life?”

“My credentials are a little much to be spying on a high school student,” she says. “I know that’s where Osborn is sending his son. It’s online everywhere.”

“Don’t you just hate PR schemes?” asks Tony. He looks away from his computer screen and up at her. “And you shouldn’t think of it as spying. More like babysitting. Besides, you won’t be there for Harry. Be serious. Whoever told their high school guidance counselor anything?”

“Babysitting?” she asks. “Oh, hell no, Stark. You’re not using Peter to get close to Norman.”

“I know. We’re using him to get close to his son.”

“No, there’s no we in this conversation,” she tells him. “This is all you, your plan. I can’t believe you want to get him involved in this.”

“He’s already involved with it.”

“Damnit, Tony – “

“-Shhh,” He stands from the chair quickly. His eyes dart over to the living room, before he whispers at her, “I don’t want him waking up and wrecking my progress.”

Nat spots Peter on the couch. He’s almost completely camouflaged by a blanket, just the top of his head poking out and sitting uncomfortably on the armrest. That’s going to ache when he wakes up, and she’s about to scold Tony for not giving him a pillow, but then remembers who she’s talking with. It’s a small miracle the boy got a blanket, a bigger one he’d been allowed to fall asleep on the couch in the first place.

A realization drains her anger. She quiets her voice. “You let him stay the night.”

“Well I wasn’t going to wake up him up and march him back down to medical, only to have him sneak out again,” says Tony. He sits back down, stares at the computer screen, but Nat can tell, his attention is now elsewhere. “Bruce was up earlier. Says he’s ready to leave observation, so I’m putting him my guestroom.”

“You don’t have a guestroom. You have a spare room with a bunch of junk in it.”

“So I’ll get someone to bring some furniture up,” he snaps. “There. Now it’s a guestroom.”  

She’s about to pry. About to point out to him how strange it’s going to look that Tony Stark is offering up his guestroom to a boy they all barely know, but then, she doesn’t. It had been irritating when Bruce did it to her and she thinks understands. It’s beyond being sympathetic or pitying, because of what they saw and what they heard and the memories of Peter with a gun, waving it around, both too young and too afraid to pull the trigger on someone the world would never truly miss, reaches way beyond that and moves into their own memories of lost childhoods and being forced to grow up too quickly.

And most importantly, not wanting to see it repeated with somebody else.

It’s why she hates the idea of using Peter as a spy against Harry. It’s why the skeptic in her wants to question Tony about his motivation for keeping Peter close to him. Because he cares about what happens to him, or because he wants to turn him into someone who could be friends with Harry Osborn? She decides it’s probably both.

“And you really think putting him in the field is a good idea?”

“It’s high school, Nat. It’s hardly the field.”

“He would barely let me get near him with scissors,” she points out.

“He will adjust.”

Natasha looks back down at the application for Midtown Science and Technology’s guidance counselor. She doesn’t know the first thing about shelling out wisdom to teenagers with typical, normal problems. She’s not even great with teenagers with above average problems, as proven yesterday when she almost frightened a traumatized boy to death with a pair of haircutting scissors. But she supposes she can pretend. It can’t be harder than any other situation she’s been in.

She’s officially on the fence. A step in a different direction, but still, undecided.

“Look Natasha,” says Tony. He’s rubbing his temple. He’s messing with his hair. Bothered by something not even the Osborn obsession can distract him from. “I don’t like it either, but it’s a good plan. Everyone wins.”

“How?”

“Peter steals the Osborn family secrets, we find a way to tie Norman Osborn to New Life and at the end of this, once Bruce finds something to counteract the poison and we can get those kids out of there without killing off, both Norman and Monroe go to prison, where they belong,” he says. “And in the meantime, Peter goes to school. Where he belongs. By the time it’s all over, he’ll have friends… a life. Win-win.”

“And after it’s over? Where does he go, then?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

Natasha doesn’t believe him, but she moves on. “There’s one person who doesn’t win. Harry Osborn.”

“He’s not our problem.”

It’s cold but it’s the truth. Harry is Norman’s problem, and no matter how much he appears to love his son while the cameras are rolling, Nat knows he can’t really love him that much, or he wouldn’t be running a lab to experiment on orphans. It puts Harry at risk, of being alone, without a father or a family, an orphan just like the kids he victimizes.

“Steve will never agree with this,” she says. Because she’s coming around to the idea, and because that means figuring out of the potential problems, all the areas it could go wrong.

“He doesn’t have to know yet,” says Tony. He looks back over at Peter sleeping on the couch. “It’s like you said. He’s going to need some time and we still have a lot of it before fall, but I’m going to need someone inside that school. When they figure out he’s alive, he’s in danger.”

Nat doesn’t think it’s likely for Monroe to discover Peter’s alive. It’s not as if the man is watching every high school in America, but she writes off Tony’s paranoia as a good sign.

“Okay,” says Nat. She turns to leave, to further think about it, but mostly, make her own plans to secure the guidance counselor position. “But Tony, eventually, he’s going to wake up. And he’s staying with you, so you’re going to have to deal with him wrecking things, from time to time.”

He hits her with his signature sharp Tony Stark glare. It has no effect on her.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” she says, and leaves it at that.

* * *

“Really? I can stay here?”

Tony can’t read his expression, but Peter at least seems more relaxed than he’s ever seen him before. He’s leaning back in the chair, brown hair still messy from sleeping, with an untouched bowl of cereal in front of him. He’s sitting still. Not fidgeting. Relieved, Tony decides. Maybe he’d been worrying he’d be sent back down to the lonely medical wing, with only Bruce and the occasional visitor to keep him company.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t tell him about Harry Osborn, or anything at all pertaining to the discussion he had earlier with Nat. It’s too soon.

“Eat your cereal.”

“I don’t like cereal, Mr. Stark,” he says.

Tony narrows his eyes, not daring to believe for a second the boy is actually picky, after practically starving to death for four years. He searches his mostly empty cupboards for something else and finally finds a box of pop-tarts sitting upside down near the back. He checks the label. They expire in two days. Good enough. He throws a packet at him and his reflexives are incredibly sharp.

“Why are you calling me Mr. Stark?”

“You never introduced yourself,” says Peter, ripping the package open.

“Tony.”

“Tony,” Peter repeats. “You know, it’s really too late in the day for breakfast food.”

Tony takes a breath, then takes the bowl of cereal and dumps it in the sink, while Peter eats cold pop-tarts on the table, using the tin foil wrapper as a plate. Making a mess with the crumbs. Clearly, they have a lot of work to do before Tony tosses him into the middle of high class society, where he’ll have to get comfortable if he’s going to become close enough friends with Harry Osborn for the boy to spill all of his secrets.

A few hours later, Steve and Bucky bring furniture up and help Tony clear the junk from the spare room down the hall from Tony’s bedroom. It doesn’t take long, and when they’re done, Peter steps inside his new bedroom, looks around and takes a seat on the bed, testing the waters.

“It’s…. big,” he says.

Too big is unsaid, but Tony’s certain that’s what he means. A lot of work. They have a lot of work to do.

“Average,” corrects Tony. “This is average.”

And then the days pass easily, as if time doesn’t exist, as they’re lost somewhere outside of time and all sense of it is lost to them.

They stay in the suite, because the idea of introducing Peter to the rest of the Avengers, strangers to him, seems like a bad one. His trust is difficult to earn. Throwing him in the deep end, getting him overwhelmed with new introductions isn’t what he wants or needs.

Their days are spent sorting the research into piles, categorizing it into files onto a laptop, then eventually a flash drive, but despite all their organizing, the research mess grows. New things are added. Things are rarely discarded. Sometimes, Tony gets him to answer questions about New Life research facility, to fill in a few blanks he has in his head, but most of the time, Peter seems to become conveniently preoccupied when those questions come up. They eat pizza, takeout, anything Tony can get delivered, which is everything, on the floor in the living room, combing through old files.

And Tony finds himself surprised. It’s all sort of… nice. He’d thought Peter’s presence in his suite would be a necessary annoyance, something he could learn to live with, but once he overlooks his questions and never-ending stories about his parents, he likes his company. He’s smart. Extremely smart. He does things the right way, the first time, and Tony both appreciates this about his new partner in crime and begins to understand why Monroe had such a hard time getting him to do what he wanted.

Nat and Clint are frequent visitors, a temporary break from the genetic research rabbit hole, or at least it is for Tony. Clint tries to get Peter to do something, anything, other than read Norman Osborn’s biography, anything except cling to Tony’s obsession with Oscorp, but it doesn’t work. He’s determined and focused to figure out everything he can about the man who stole four years of his life. Clint doesn’t need to use his words to make impress upon Tony the idea he’s making a horrible mistake by allowing it to continue, to encourage it even. It radiates off him with every sentence, every side-glance in his direction.

_“What the hell you are guys doing to that poor kid?”_

The memory is appropriate. It’s just like the ride home on the jet. Tony can’t stop him from searching for answers, and he can’t stop himself from adding fuel to the fire. It’s for his own good. Building a part of him that will eventually have to earn someone’s trust and then break it. It’s necessary for the mission.

It takes Tony a couple more days for Nat’s words to ring true. Things start to wreck, or rather, things were wrecking the entire time and it took Tony awhile to recognize the damage. He’s almost asleep when FRIDAY informs him Steve and Peter are standing in the foyer, waiting to talk to him. And that’s odd. Peter went to bed. He’s supposed to be in bed, but when he passes his room, he looks inside.

Bed empty. Covers thrown askew.

Peter is staring at his feet when Tony enters the room. He looks politely apologetic, but not because he’s sorry, Tony thinks, because he isn’t sorry, and he knows they expect him to be. When it’s clear he’s not getting any answers from him, he turns to Steve.

“He’s just been getting a little restless at night,” Steve explains. He reaches out to place a hand of support on Peter’s shoulder, but he moves away, then leaves them altogether. Without a word, he retreats to his room, head hung, both men watching him as he goes. “I found him in the lobby a couple of nights ago, trying to get through the front doors, so I took him for a walk outside, thought that’d be the end of it, but he kept coming back so I- “

“-How long?”

“Last three nights or so,” says Steve. “I’m sorry, Tony, I should have told you sooner, but he didn’t want you to know, probably because – “

“Because he knew I would make him stop,” finishes Tony. He doesn’t feel like he can handle long winded explanations, doesn’t want to hear it, just wants to dwell on the fact Peter snuck out three nights in a row and he didn’t have a clue. “You’re too nice, Cap. You’re being manipulated by a fourteen-year-old.”

“Yeah, maybe. Just take care of him, Tony. He trusts you the most,” says Steve. He’s looking and sounding very doubtful, worried even. “And the rest of them are getting restless, too. They’re all curious about the boy you have living up here. Wanda especially – “

“-Not yet.” He cuts him off one last time. Again, he doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to hear about Wanda, doesn’t want her anywhere near Peter.

Steve only nods in response. So damn polite, even when he shouldn’t be. He says goodnight and disappears into the elevator.

Tony heads to Peter’s room, opens the door without knocking and tilts his head at the sight of him pretending to be asleep. Faker. Tony can tell, but he lets it slide. He backs out of the room and gently shuts the door as he goes. It’s late. He doesn’t want an argument. When he returns to his own room, he sets FRIDAY up with a protocol to restrict Peter’s access to the elevator during the night.

There. Problem solved.

The next morning Peter eats his breakfast, pretending like nothing strange or unusual happened the night before. He sits across from Tony, picking at the microwaved breakfast sandwich, tearing off pieces of the biscuit and only occasionally eating them. Tony wants to bark at him to quit playing with his food, but instead he chooses a different battle. He slides a laptop in front of him and tells him to order more clothes. Real clothes this time, not lounging clothes, and from websites Tony preselects, because he’s assuming Harry Osborn can probably spot an imposter by a single ripped thread.

 “Tony,” says Peter, blinks up from the screen. He’s just relieved he isn’t still calling him Mr. Stark. That first day it’d been an all-day battle. “Isn’t a hundred and twenty dollars a lot for one shirt? And that’s the cheapest one on here…”

He shakes his head. “Pocket change.”

“That’s not pocket change,” he says back, but he’s not sure. Not confident. He’s been kept away from reality for too long, and now Tony’s got no problem inflicting him with his reality.

“It is. Don’t look at the prices,” says Tony. “Just click.”

“Ok. Done,” says Peter. He pushes the laptop across the table.

Tony pushes it back to him. “No. You’re nowhere near done. Keep going.”

Peter gives him a dramatic sigh, but does what he’s told, even if it takes him all day to pick out enough items for Tony to be happy. He gets distracted, by other websites, by YouTube, by Tony’s research and finally by Norman’s biography. Again. Maybe Clint’s got a point. By the time he declares he’s finished, and Tony agrees that he’s finished, it’s way past time to be headed off to bed. The kid leaves for his bedroom, Tony kills the lights, but he stays seated in his armchair and he waits for the great escapologist Peter Parker to emerge for his room and attempt to continue on with his nighttime adventures, whatever they may be.

While he waits, he goes through the shopping cart, adding a few things and then presses send. Then he sends an email attached with his order number. Explaining that it’s needed tomorrow. That he’s Tony Stark. He’ll pay extra. He’ll tip well.

One hour later Peter silently moves through the foyer, making his steps light and careful. He hits the button to call the elevator and Tony watches him from the armchair, laptop closed on his lap, feeling strangely… guilty, spying on him this way instead of confronting him directly and setting him straight, but he ignores the uncomfortable feeling. Peter’s shoulders fall when FRIDAY gives him the bad news, and Tony continues to conceal his presence right up until the point when Peter begins to interact with the elevator’s control panel, no doubt, attempting to outsmart it.

“It’s a waste of your time, kid,” says Tony, loud. Peter spins around and his eyes sharpen in… anger? At him? That’s a new one. “You won’t be able to hack into tech I’ve programmed.” 

Peter stares at him, fire behind his eyes, and Tony braces himself, waiting for him to start yelling, but it never comes.

“Goodnight, Mr. Stark.” A more sophisticated blow. More elegant than shouting, but effective.

“Hey,” says Tony. He’s on his feet fast, the laptop’s glass screen crunches as it hits the floor hard, and Peter stops his march back to his bedroom. “No. I don’t think so. Explain what you’re doing wandering around at night, while everyone else is sleeping?”

Peter crosses his arms. “Why can’t I just go to bed? I obviously won’t do it again.”

“Fine.”

“Great.” He storms away.

And Tony thinks that’s the end of it. He’s wrong.

Next time it’s closer to early morning than to the middle of the night.

“Sir, Mr. Barnes is attempting to use the elevator to access your suite. As per protocol, I am required to have your authorization before lifting the elevator with Mr. Parker on board between the hours of 10 PM and 10 AM.”

Tony’s eyes snap open. He groans, then sits up.

“Mr. Barnes would like to add that Mr. Parker is being unhelpful and it would be wise to act immediately.”

“Yeah, yeah. Send them up.”

This time when Tony passes Peter’s bedroom the window is open, the curtain flowing in a summer breeze.

He arrives in the entryway as the elevator doors open. Bucky steps out with Peter, his metal hand clasped around his arm, pulling him into the suite as the boy fights him, struggling, the whole way. It feels wrong. Standing by and watching as Bucky drags Peter the short distance from the elevator into the suite.

“What,” starts Tony, icy and he’s not sure who he’s directing the venom towards, “is going on?”

Bucky releases Peter’s arm with a push as the door to the elevator closes. Peter glares up at him, breathing heavy, all fire and anger and if he thought he could get away with it, Tony doesn’t doubt Peter would push the man back. He looks at Tony, for help maybe, but when he’s only meet with a raised eyebrow, he trudges past him without a word. Seconds later, a door slams.

“FRIDAY. Secure the windows,” says Tony. He runs a hand through his hair. “Did you find him outside?”

Bucky nods.

“Do you think…” Tony trails off. “Do you think he’s trying to run away?”

“No. He’s aimless. He’s feet are moving, but his brain’s on autopilot,” says Bucky. He stands there. Not saying anything, just blinking at him, taking in the sight of the suite. “He’s very unhappy.”

“Yeah, well no shit, Barnes,” says Tony. It’s a blow. The acknowledgment of Peter’s grief. It brings to Tony the realization he’s been ignoring it. “He’s been locked away with whack jobs for the past four years and now he’s stuck with us.”

With me, he means, but it’s easier to say us.

“Are you actually trying to help him?” asks Bucky. His eyes fly around the messy suite once again. It’s worse now. There’s more research, more piles, more everything. “Or are you just distracting him?”

“I’m helping the way I know how." 

“Distracting then,” says Bucky. “It’s not going to work. All those distractions disappear when you’re alone in the dark.” He moves towards the elevator and pushes down on the call button. “Oh, and we had an audience tonight. He wasn’t exactly being cooperative and now they’re asking questions again.”

“Doesn’t anyone sleep around here anymore?” Tony yells after him.

Bucky doesn’t give an answer and he doesn’t say goodnight. Tony watches as the doors slide close on him. He doesn’t know who he’s angrier with, himself for not realizing this would be a problem from the get-go, Peter for disregarding the rules, or Bucky… for just, being there.

The lights are off in Peter’s room by the time Tony gets there, and he’s laying on his bed with his eyes closed a little too tight.

Tony switches them back on. “I know you’re awake.”

He opens his eyes and sits up. Still wearing his glare. Unhappy indeed, but also, unquestionably angry and no longer pretending to be polite.

“I wasn’t trying to run away.”

“Eavesdropping again?”

“Why shouldn’t I when it’s about me?”

He walks further into his room, pauses, then takes a seat on his bed. “We’re going to have that talk now.”

“What talk?”

“The one where you tell me about all the crazy abilities Monroe and his merry band of mad scientists gave you.”

“Why? To make it easier for you to lock me up?” There’s an intensity and fierceness in his face Tony hasn’t seen since the night they met, and then it had only been directed at Monroe. It stings, but mostly it snaps him out of it.

“No,” says Tony. His words are careful. They aren’t rough, his default, and so even to his own ears, sounds disingenuous. “To make it easier for me to help you.”

Peter looks away, miserable and Tony begins to grow angry too, at himself, for being himself, because he should have known better. And he should have put a stop to him getting out of bed in the middle of the night a long time ago.

He does, eventually, tell him about the spider-bite, about crawling down the side of the Avenger’s Compound, about sticking to walls, his increased senses, his extra sense and then the rest, well Tony knows the rest. Strength. Healing. Super-Hearing, which happens to be Tony’s least favorite. He doesn’t leave anything out. He doesn’t lie, Tony’s convinced, but by the end of it, the boy’s still angry and frustrated and not wanting to stay in his room.

“Are you having nightmares?”

“No.”

“Insomnia?”

“No.”

“Peter, why are you doing this, then?”

“I don’t know.”

Tony believes it. He has quite a bit of experience of being mystified by his own behavior.

It won’t do, though. It can’t continue. It’s dangerous here, and it’ll be even more dangerous when Tony moves him with him and Pepper in the city. And the mission, there’s no way the kid glaring at him now and refusing to sleep through the night is anywhere near ready, but Tony’s not ready to give up on it. Put it on hold, maybe, until he gets sorted out. Tony has to stomp it out, whatever it is, he has to crush it, before Peter hurts himself, before he wanders off so far away he can’t be found, or before he walks right back into the hands of Osborn’s crazy scientists.

“You’re going to stay in here, and go to sleep, and if you take a step out of this room before morning, FRIDAY will wake me up, got it?” 

“Loud and clear,” he says, through gritted teeth. Sarcastic. Angry. No trace of the version of Peter who sat across from him looking relieved left. Now it’s clear he rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, except maybe Bucky. 

Tony leaves the room, switching off the light as he goes and not daring to look back. It’s for his own good. If he keeps telling himself that, maybe he’ll eventually be able to get some sleep.


	7. the crocodile

  1. the crocodile



Harry Osborn steps out of the car and into a giant puddle. He stops, looks down at his feet, mortified at the disgusting, warm, dirty probably-infected-with-diseases-passed-by-sewer-rats water that is soaking through his shoes, spreading into the fabric of his socks and most of all, beginning to make contact with his skin. With a huff, he slams the car door shut without acknowledging his driver and steps out of the puddle.

As if his day hasn’t already been bad enough. No, scratch that. As if his summer hasn’t already been bad enough.

Harry yells at the doorman to retrieve his luggage from the trunk and the man comes scurrying out into the rain as Harry trudges past him into his building, filled with artificial lighting giving off a golden hue. It reflects down from the massive, crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He plows through the lobby, ignoring sideways glances from people who are technically his neighbors but for whom he doesn’t care for, gets into the elevator and sends it up to the top floor.

The doors open to reveal an open-space living room with full windows, showing a specular view of New York City, but Harry isn’t interested. He shoots up the spiraling, open stairway, makes a right and heads down the long hallway that ends with his father’s office.

Harry and his dad are going to have the argument again. The same one they’ve been having on and off since Norman decided to take it upon himself to announce to the press Harry would be attending Midtown Science and Technology in the fall. It always ends the same way. With Norman winning, but after spending a couple of weeks in Europe with his soon to be classmates, Harry has new evidence to support his case.

As he grows nearer it becomes clear his argument will have to wait. Norman’s already engaged in one of his own.

“So you expect me to believe the rumors aren’t true?” asks Norman, as Harry leans against the doorway, looking inside but going unnoticed by his dad. Typical.

Maybe if he were as interesting as one of dad’s experiments he would be able to grab his attention, because apparently being away for two weeks isn’t enough. 

“Of course I do.”

A hologram of Professor Martin Monroe stands in the center of Norman’s office, and even just looking at the man’s back makes Harry want to turn around and go to his room. He’s a man Harry hates without really knowing a good reason why he should. It’s his vibe, he supposes. Creepy and always giving him smiles drenched with insincerity. He’s his father’s employee, and as such, someone Norman talks down to, criticizes every chance he gets, but Harry’s expected to be polite. Dishing out abuse is best left up to the grown-ups, he guesses, except when it comes to the doorman and that barista who got Harry’s order at the Starbucks in the airport.

“They’re completely ridiculous,” says Monroe, with nervous laughter. Normally Harry takes that as a liar’s giveaway, but it’s hard to say here. Norman’s terrifying. He makes people nervous just looking at him. “What on earth would Tony Stark be doing here, of all places? Besides that, our security is impenetrable. He’d never get in.”

“Investigating,” says Norman, coolly. “He thinks he’s a super hero. And are you really so dim you don’t believe the Avengers couldn’t break into that low-rate dump if they feel like it?” 

“Well, Sir, technically it’s your low-rate dump – “

“-It wasn’t that way when it started,” snaps Norman. “You better hope that those rumors aren’t true, Monroe, because if I find out you had four Avengers at your mercy and you let them go – after they witnessed what’s going on there – I will shut that facility down so fast no one who works there will even have time to notice you’re missing.”

Harry shifts his feet and his wet socks squish against the inside of his tennis shoes. Hearing about Tony Stark and the Avengers, especially about how them and his father are at odds, causes him pause. Everyone, all his friends, thinks they’re the good guys. But that’s just how the world works. Hero-worship always goes to the undeserving, while good men like his dad gets dragged on Twitter for simply trying to make scientific progress.

“I guess it’s fortunate that they are not true, then,” says Monroe.

“Yes, it is,” says Norman. The threat in his eyes is clear. Harry can see it across his father’s oversized office, but then, as if a switch had been turned, Norman’s jaw loosens, he looks down at a piece of paper on the large, oak desk he occupies and moves away from the taboo subject of the Avengers. “Now regarding the recent failures, the terminated experiments, Nine in particular – the spider. I thought I made myself clear when I told you not to temper with that one.”

“Yes, well that situation was regrettable, but I assure you, there was nothing we could do,” says Monroe. “It became unstable and we lost control.”

“Lost control?”

Norman is about to start abusing Monroe some more, but out of nowhere, a sneeze makes Harry lose his balance against the wall and he stumbles backwards. He manages to rearrange his footing and catch himself.

“Harry, I didn’t know you were coming home today,” says Norman. His face lights up. His voice changes. An outsider looking in might think he’s happy to see his son, but then, why doesn’t his words match his tone? “How was your trip?”

“Awful.” 

Norman laughs, and it’s not nervous like Monroe. It’s not even fake. It’s good-spirited, and somehow, it makes it worse. Harry’s misery isn’t something he feels should be laughed at.

“You know how kids are. Always so honest,” says Norman, to Monroe. He looks back at Harry. “Come over and say hello to the Professor.”

He would really rather not. He would like to avoid speaking to Monroe at all costs, but his dad told him to and he would rather go back outside and roll around in that disgusting rain puddle on the dirt incrusted road than have his dad look at him the same way he had been looking at Monroe only seconds ago. He walks over, water steeping off his shoes and into the carpet as he does and stands next to his dad behind the desk.

“Nice to see you, Professor Monroe,” says Harry, swallowing his bad mood, at least momentarily and pulling on his polite face. His camera face.

“Harry! You look more and more like your father every time I see you,” he says, and now that Harry’s looking at the front of him, he can see bruises, evident even in his digitized form, stretched across the old man’s face. “You didn’t care for Europe?”

“I didn’t like the plane,” says Harry, still eying the bruises. “The school made us fly coach. Professor, are you okay?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “Just one of your father’s experiments that ended badly. It got away from me.”

Harry frowns. It doesn’t add up. “A spider did all that to you?”

“Harry,” says his dad, jumping up from his chair and putting his hands on his shoulders. He walks him towards the office door. “Why don’t you wait for me out in the dining room? We’re almost finished here, and then we can decide where to go to celebrate your homecoming.”

“Sure,” says Harry. “Bye, Professor.”

He bolts to his bedroom and immediately gets into dry clothes before heading into the dining room, where he sits at the head of the table drinking a Gatorade and getting lost in his Twitter feed. All his friends are off doing fun things. Together. While he got stuck flying public with kids he doesn’t like and has no capacity to even pretend to tolerate. The familiar frustration he’d been momentarily distracted from bubbles back, like it always does, when social media is involved and by the time his dad appears from his office, his mind is back on the argument.

The only argument that matters.

“I don’t want to go to Midtown,” he says.

Norman drops his smile and a flash of annoyance replaces it. “I take it the plane wasn’t the only hang up.”

“Have you ever flown coach?” asks Harry. “And the kids are awful… they’re so…”

“They are exactly the type of people you need to learn to get along with,” finishes Norman. “Are we really going to have this discussion again?”

“But dad, it’s practically a public school,” he blurts out. He hates the sound of his own voice, how it comes out whiny and young, no matter how hard he tries to imitate the tone his father uses when he’s dressing down his employees or the help. “I just want… I just want to be with my friends.”

He puts his head down and screws the orange cap back on the Gatorade bottle. He should’ve waited for this, until he wasn’t jetlagged and tired, because suddenly, he can’t remember any of his evidence. Maybe he should have written it down.

“That’s childish,” says Norman. “You will be in high school, and it’s time to put petty things like friendships away and focus on your future. This school is good for our public image, and as a result, good for the image of Oscorp, which is your future.”

“Why can’t I decide for myself?”

“Because you’ll choose wrong. You can, however, make a decision about dinner. Where would you like to go?”

It’s unfair, and he should have seen it coming. Norman is a champion at dismissing him and changing the subject, all while making it seem like he’s doing him a favor. He does, eventually and somewhat begrudgingly, choose a place for dinner, but they don’t leave right away. As it turns out, Harry’s grown up enough to not need to worry about hanging out with his friends, but also still young enough to be sent to his room and forced to take a nap, least his dad has to worry about taking a sulking teenager out where the paparazzi lurk, ready to capture a bad moment in the blink of an eye.

The indignity of it makes him want to stick around and argue some more, but he knows it will only further prove his dad’s point. He’s tired. He’s jetlagged. He does need to sleep, and when his head hits the pillow, he’s out like a light.

* * *

This time it isn’t the silence that’s crushing him. It’s the laugh track.

If it weren’t for his enhanced hearing, he probably wouldn’t even hear it. They have the volume set on low, because they think he’s trying to sleep, instead of what he’s actually doing, which is laying face up on a bed that’s too big for him and blinking at the ceiling.

Clint did ask Peter to join them. To come out of his room, sit on the couch and watch TV with them, like everything’s fine.

“TV’s a waste of time,” Peter told them, and now he’s here. Alone in his room while three Avengers sit in the living room of Tony’s suite watching some crumby sitcom.

He doesn’t really think that. Those words belong to someone else, but he had to say something to get away from them after dinner. He couldn’t look at them anymore and hold the noise in his head back at the same time. Clint, who keeps trying to get him to play games, and Steve, who shielded him from whatever cruel things Tony and Nat were doing to make Monroe scream, and Nat, who stool his opportunity to kill the monster and chase the noise away for good. 

He shouldn’t have let go of the gun. He shouldn’t have punched in the code and let them out of the glass cage.

Now he’s the one in prison.

Usually Tony’s his warden, but he’s gone. Tony, who’s both intelligent enough and strong enough to keep him in his room when he doesn’t want to be there, is gone. He left for the night to spend time with his fiancée in the city, and Peter had been hopeful. He thought he’d get another try at trying to hack into the elevator’s programming, but like any good warden, Tony left him with babysitters.

Maybe there is a reason to miss Monroe. At least at the facility he had a little bit of freedom. At least at the facility he wasn’t reminded of how much he’s lost at every turn.    

Memories can’t be kept away when he’s surrounded by so many normal, mundane things. His parents, May and Ben are everywhere. His mom looks on in disapproval every time him and Tony eat takeout on the floor surrounded by piles of Oscorp documents, and his dad, wearing his wide-frame glasses, Peter pictures him walking around the suite, picking up papers from the floor, reading them, fascinated by them. Sometimes he tries to imagine what a conversation between him and Tony would sound like, but he can’t remember his dad well enough to get his part of the conversation right.

He’d been a busy man, but also, a smart one.

If Peter had taken Clint up on the offer to watch TV, he probably would have been able to imagine May and Ben on the couch with them. They loved movies, and they showed him all the classics. Really old movies Ben loved when he was younger. Movies with spaceships and laser-swords and aliens from other planets. The last movie they watched together Peter got to pick, because it was a distraction, so they watched Harry Potter.

He found it unrealistic. Not because of the magic wands or broomsticks, but because Peter couldn’t imagine a world where parents are dead, and aunts and uncles were anything less than kind and doting.

That had been a long time ago.

A loud course of laughter erupts from the TV, and Peter can’t take it anymore. He gets out of bed. He walks back and forth at the foot of it. Thoughts coming faster than he can process them. His wrist twitches, and then he sees it. The black tracker. It’s fastened around his wrist again. Embedded in him. Part of him. He doesn’t think to question it. There’s no room for anything else in his brain except getting it off before he ends up like Laney.

Peter drops to the concrete floor at the end of the bed that’s too small for him, wrestling with his wrist, scratching at it, pulling at it, ignoring the burning and the stinging he’s causing. He has to get it off, no matter how bad it hurts.

“Peter, stop.”

He blinks and goes still. It’s not an order. Begging. It sounds like begging. Like Tony telling him to please get on the jet. He looks up and meets Natasha’s eyes, her face is still as irritatingly blank as the day he met her. He sits up slowly, puts his back against the bed without a metal frame. A bed that’s too big. He feels the carpet beneath him with his hands, and when he looks away from Nat and at his wrist, he sees nothing except scratch marks and fresh blood. He’s back.

He's not at the facility anymore. He’s in the real world, or at least something closer to it, and his parents are still gone. May and Ben are gone. Laney is gone, and no matter how loudly Tony shouts at him that it isn’t, Peter knows it’s his fault.

He pulls his knees into his chest and buries his head in them. His eyes sting and he sobs like he did at the funerals when he was nine, like he did alone in his room his first nights at the facility. He hears Natasha’s footsteps fade away, then come back. He hears Steve calling after her, asking what’s wrong, but he doesn’t get an answer. And almost suddenly, without him having the time to realize it, Nat is sitting next to him cleaning his wrist, wrapping it again, but he doesn’t lift his head from his knees. He can’t. He can’t look at anyone like this.

She doesn’t leave him when she’s done wrapping his wrist. She stays and slings an arm around his shoulders. There aren’t any words exchanged. There are no promises about things being okay, or even things getting better, and Peter figures someone who’s be given the name Black Widow knows better to believe in fairy tales. They sit together in the silence and the noise, opposites that somehow feel the same.

He must have eventually stopped crying and fallen asleep, because the next time he opens his eyes, he’s back in his bed, staring straight up at the ceiling. The TV in the living room has been turned off, and Nat is talking to someone Peter can’t hear. Someone who isn’t in the room with her.

“He’s not adjusting,” she says.

Not adjusting.

* * *

Tony steals Pepper’s phone.

Of course, he waits until she leaves bed to go grab a shower, and he’s thankful she’s not the sort of person who brings her phone with her.

He scrolls through her contacts until his thumb lands on her friend. The one that he hates. The one who hates him and is always telling Pepper she should leave him. Run while she still can. Luckily for Tony, Pepper’s never been the type of person to run away from her problems. That’s where Tony excels, or rather, he excels at burying them beneath piles of Norman’s academic journals or building them into impressive suits he can fly around in and fight monsters with.

He considers for a moment whether or not this is a good idea. He exhales. It’s his only idea. He’ll do anything, even this, to end the cold war between him and Peter, the shouting matches that seem to spring up out of nowhere that’s been all too common over the last few days. Tony doesn’t need Nat to call him in the middle of the night to tell him he’s been making a mistake when it comes to Peter. It’s blatantly obvious.

That night at New Life Research Facility he’d been so focused on making sure he got out alive, he never stopped for one second to think about what he’d do with a teenager once he got him out of there. He’s a lot better at the saving part. Another thing that’s obvious.

He presses call and listens to the rings, shielding his eyes from the morning sun streaming in from the balcony windows. He prefers to operate in the dark, but Pepper left the curtains open.

Catherine answers on the third ring.

“Hey Pep – “

“So sorry to disappoint,” says Tony, rushing to cut her off, like ripping off a band-aid.

“Why do you have Pepper’s phone?”

“We’re getting married. We share everything.”

“I’m hanging up,” she says.

“You really don’t wanna do that.”

“Oh, I don’t?”

“Nope,” says Tony. “You’re about to be a witness of a once in a lifetime event and I’m pretty sure you’re not going to want to miss out.”

“What? Is Pepper making you apologize for being such an egotistical asshole last time we all went to dinner?”

“Uh, no,” says Tony. “But I’m about to ask you for some advice, so unless you require the apology – “

“-Advice?”

“Yeah, aren’t you a therapist? That’s your job, right?”

“I’m a child therapist,” she says, then pauses. “Oh, so maybe I am the perfect person for you to talk to.”

“Funny,” says Tony. He picks at a loose thread in the comforter. “But it’s not for me.”   

“Okay,” she says, skepticism and curiousness control her voice. “…I’m listening.”

“Well, theoretically…” he starts, then recounts anything and everything a therapist would need to know about Peter to sort out the wandering problem, right up to the break down Nat described to him over the phone. Catherine stays silent for several seconds, taking it all in, but Tony’s never had much patience. “What do you think?”

“Theoretically,” she repeats, “I know what you should do, but you won’t like it.”

“I’m not handing him over to – “

“-That’s not what I was going to say. Just listen.”

He does listen, and she’s right. He doesn’t like it. Tony disagrees with her completely. Her solution is indulgent, but mostly, it makes him realize he’s an asshole. Like Howard. By the very merit of him writing off a professional’s advice as catering at first glance, he’s closer to his father than he’s ever been.

It’s not a place he wants to be.

“And Tony,” she says, before they hang up. “Keep him busy. But not too busy. A productive distraction can work wonders.”

Productive. He was half-right, at least, but even he can admit going round and round the Osborn research cycle isn’t productive for either of them. Monroe’s watch provided new insight, but even that, now, is old news. And suddenly, letting Peter in on the plan for him to go undercover doesn’t seem like a terrible idea. Especially if Tony can use it as an agent to get him to do normal things without remarking that it’s a waste of time.

Pepper reemerges from the bathroom with wet hair and draped in her work clothes, elegant and beautiful. The sunlight from the balcony wraps around her outline, and Tony smiles at her. When he tells her about the boy he found at the research facility, about the boy who will be coming to live with both of them here at the penthouse come fall, he won’t be needing to call Catherine anymore. She’s a natural at dealing with troubled boys.

She narrows her eyes at him in suspicion. “Who were you just talking to just now?”

“Oh, just Happy. Thinks the world is ending because I added something to his job description.”

“And that would be?”

“Nothing important,” says Tony.

The suspiciousness doesn’t leave her face, but it’s half-hearted. Eventually, she returns his smile, they share a kiss and she retreats back into the bathroom to finish her morning routine. Only this time she takes her phone.

* * *

By the time Tony makes it back to the compound, it’s already late enough for regular people to be sleeping. He finds Steve and Natasha sitting at his kitchen table playing cards, but he doesn’t acknowledge either of them being there. He blows past them, heading straight towards Peter’s room and throws his door open. Peter jumps up from his relaxed position on his bed, and a tablet tumbles from his hands and hits the floor.

And now Tony feels like a bigger asshole. Scaring the traumatized kid. Peter’s eyes set into a familiar glare once he sees the threat is just him and it causes Tony to slip back into a shout when he tells him to go into the living room.

Yelling at the traumatized kid. This apology is getting off to a great start.

Peter rolls his eyes, and Tony bites his tongue as the boy walks past where he stands at the door. Tony follows him, watching as Peter angrily walks towards the living room. He doesn’t mean to escalate the situation, but it’s hard not to, especially after a long drive of dwelling on things he shouldn’t be dwelling on, reviewing his mistakes, right up to the moment Steve appeared in his suite with Peter. As it turns out, Steve had the right idea from the very beginning, and now it pains Tony to look back and see how he reacted, by doubling-down, by calling Peter manipulative, which he realizes now, the kid probably heard him. He’s always listening.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Peter says immediately. He sits on the couch and sinks into the cushions.

“Good,” says Tony, his voice still coming rough and loud. He stands on the other side of the coffee table. “Because I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen. Don’t look at me like that,” he adds, aggressively, while holding up a finger at Nat, silencing her before she intervenes and stops what Tony is sure she believes is going to be another exercise in who can shout the loudest. “I’m trying to apologize.”

Cards hit the table. “Oh, this should be good.”

“What?” Peter blinks up at him. His shoulders fall back, confused, but the fire leaves his eyes, so Tony takes it as a good sign.

“Look,” says Tony. He starts pacing. One look at Peter staring up at him with a lost expression makes him remember he’s supposed to be having these conversations at eye-level. It’s one of Catherine’s rules. He’s screwing it up. He takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair and sits on the coffee table. Peter moves back further into the couch cushions like he’s trying to be swallowed by them. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were being locked up. You’re not. I was just trying to – I want you to feel like this is… home, for now and if you feel…” He looks at Steve, ignores his raised eyebrow, then steals his words. “…restless at night and uh, you have to wander around or whatever it is you’re doing, just let someone know and we’ll come with you.”

Peter leans up, sits up a bit straighter and cranes his neck, shooting a look over at Steve and Nat, then back at Tony. “Wait, really? Is this a trick?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that to you,” says Tony. He reaches out, pauses, expecting Peter to try to disappear into the couch again, but when he stays, he puts his hand on his shoulder. “Just… no more going off and doing your own thing, alright?”

Tony doesn’t let his eyes drift over to the kitchen table. He doesn’t want to see the irony written across Steve and Nat’s faces.

He tightens his grip. “Promise me.”

“Okay, I promise,” says Peter.

He studies him for a moment. He’s still confused and unsure and caught off guard like Steve and Nat. Tony lets go of him. Cards begin to shuffle in the kitchen. Their game restarts.

“So,” he says. “What about tonight?" 

“What about tonight?” Peter returns the question, but Tony knows he what’s being asked.

“Are you feeling like you might spaz out and start roaming around like the walking dead looking for a snack?”

“I don’t turn into a zombie,” says Peter. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face, before it turns serious again. He looks over at the window. “Can we… can we just go for a drive?” 

“Yeah,” says Tony. He looks him over. Peter’s dressed for bed although Tony is certain he never planned on actually falling asleep. “Put on normal clothes and we’ll go.”

“We’ll just be in the car…”

“If we’re going for a drive, there’s going to be a destination.”


	8. pretending life's a play

  1. pretending’s life a play



Tony’s driving is fast, but it’s not reckless. The freeway is empty, and on the rare occasion there’s another car in sight, they zoom past it. To prove that he can, Peter thinks, to show that his car is more than just flashy. It’s built to leave anything and everything behind in the dust.

Peter leans his head against the window and watches the scenery fly by as if it’s moving instead of them. Music whispers through the car’s speakers, but it isn’t the type of music that’s supposed to whisper. It’s the kind that’s meant to be shouted, but for whatever reason, Tony’s set the volume on low.

He thinks he recognizes the song, either from a dream or a memory, from the guy who lived in the apartment next door. He blasted it so loud it shook the walls, so loud his mom would bang on his door demanding he turn it down. Her son’s trying to sleep. It’s past his bedtime. Peter looks in the rearview mirror and imagines her cramped in the backseat of the sports car, shaking her head. Unimpressed. This is something she wouldn’t allow. Her son in the car with Tony Stark, treading down the interstate at an alarming speed, in the middle of the night.

He blinks and she disappears from both his mind and the backseat. She’d never really been there. She’s dead. Opinions of dead people don’t hold any weight on the living, or maybe, it’s the opposite. Maybe they’re too heavy to carry and it’s easier to throw them away. Leave them by the side of the road. Never look back.

“Something chasing us, kid?” asks Tony. His hands are planted firm on the steering wheel, and his eyes are straight ahead.

“No.” Only the ghosts.

He shoots him with a weary look, but his eyes shift back to the open highway and Peter’s head goes back against the cool window. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been driving. He can’t remember what time they said goodbye to Steve and Nat and snuck around to the garage the back way, to avoid seeing anyone else who happened to still be lurking around the compound. Tony gets points for that one. Peter has no energy for anymore introductions.

Tony merges over to the exit lane, taking them down a ramp that seems to stretch down into nothing but pitch-black darkness. They reach the bottom and headlights illuminate a stop sign that Tony ignores as he takes a right. Maybe he is a bit reckless. Maybe it’s in a good way, or else Peter might be missing a hand.

Up the road, light spills out from a small building, and it’s parking lot is where Tony makes the final turn. As the car slows and creeps through the parking lot, Peter reads LIGHTHOUSE ROADSIDE DINER on the side of the building. It’s written with peeling, faded paint, but it’s appropriate name. There’s no other light around here. Not even a working street lamp.

A neon, digital sign hangs in the door, declaring they’re open twenty-four hours, and Tony parks far from it, despite there being plenty of empty spaces closer. He turns off the engine, unfastens his seatbelt and has his hand on the car door before Peter knows what’s going on.

“Why’re we at a diner?”

“More than one way to test your metabolism,” says Tony.

He gets out and slams the door behind him, leaving Peter to scramble to get his seatbelt off and catch up with him. He’s waiting for him by the door as Peter sprints across the dark parking lot and once he arrives, Tony ushers him with a hand on his back and leads him to a table in the back the corner. They pass a balding man eating alone on their way, and Peter figures the semi in the parking lot belongs to him.

“This doesn’t seem like the type of place billionaires eat,” says Peter. He looks around. All fluorescent lights that make his eyes hurt, and checkered flooring with dirt stains on the white squares. 

“Oh really? What type of place would that be?”

Peter shrugs, and sits down across from Tony, the red plastic booth crinkling under him.  “Some place you have to wear a tie.”

“Just on occasion.”

They’re greeted by a waitress. Her hair is turning grey at the roots, but it’s smooth and locked into a flawless ponytail. She’s got a pencil behind her ear, an apron tied around her waist, menus in her hand and as she gets closer, she hits them both with a genuine, warm smile. The kind usually reserved only for people who are known. People who are liked.

“Mr. Stark,” she says. A name tag with Lydia written on it is pinned to her shirt. “Long time, no see.” She looks at Peter, then back at Tony and her smile grows bigger. “And who’s this?”

“Oh, well this is Peter,” he says. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not that. He’s my intern.”

“Uh huh. And I’m Kim Kardashian.”

“If anyone asks, he’s my intern.” He beckons to somewhere behind a door that says employees only.

“You might want to think of a better story, Mr. Stark,” she says. “Ain’t no one going to believe Stark Industries hires interns, or that Tony Stark takes them to dinner at 3 in the morning.”

He nods his head at her, and she hands over the menus, takes their drink orders and disappears behind the door. Peter lets his menu fall on the table, folding and unfolding its corner with his fingers, as he watches four college students stumble through the door. They’re dressed out in shirts with their school’s name and colors plastered all over them, and they sit closer to the truck driver near the front door. It doesn’t stop them from looking over at him and Tony. From whispering about them, but Peter doesn’t bother listening to what they’re saying.

He's afraid of what he’ll hear, because he’s think it’s probably the same thing Lydia had been thinking but never explicitly stated out loud.

“Tony. They’re staring at us.” He doesn’t like it. Being watched.

“Ignore it,” says Tony. He doesn’t look up from the menu, but Peter can’t stop fixating on it and stares right back at them as they put their heads together, whisper, pop up to do more looking. A hand snapping in his face breaks Peter’s attention. “Stop it. You’re encouraging them.”

It’s an easy thing for him to say. His back is faced towards them, but Peter gets the full view and he’s still watching when one of the girls in the group, a pretty blonde, points her phone at him.

“One of them just took a picture of me.” His whisper is fast and panicked. He ducks his head down.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters. His menu falls. He stands up and looks down at Peter. “Stay here.”

Tony walks over to their table and pulls out his wallet. He pays them off. Hands out hundred-dollar bills like an elementary school teacher handing out candy. The blonde girl shows him her phone, he thanks her and returns to their booth in the back corner.

“A hundred dollars seems like more than pocket change to them,” says Peter.

It’s hard to forget about the conversation regarding too-expensive clothes when he’s wearing them in a diner where just about everything is old and nearly falling apart. A hundred dollars. That’s more money than two tickets to the zoo on family day. Peter still remembers the bright, summer day him and May pretended to be pirates and fished actual pocket change out of wishing fountains to be able to afford to go. Another distraction, because even when his parents were alive, they weren’t always there. 

“When I said that,” says Tony. He’s talking slow. He never talks slow. It gives Peter the impression he’s considering his words carefully. “I meant it isn’t a lot of money for people like us.”

“You mean people like you,” says Peter. Wearing fancy clothes and sleeping a giant room doesn’t make him like Tony. “And Norman Osborn.”

“Nope. Osborn doesn’t even belong on the same planet as us.”

Peter looks back down at his unopened menu. Guilty. Putting those two men in the same category is a low blow. One rescued him, the other ruined his life, let Monroe run dangerous experiments while he pretended not to know about it. All while he lived in luxury. All while he raised his own son. A boy the same age as Peter. It makes his head noisy.  

Like the gun’s back in his hands. It’s the same jarring noise followed by silence followed by more noise. 

“I w-want him dead,” says Peter. A realization comes with saying those words out loud. Not that’s he’s angry. He’s known that all along. He’s been misdirecting it. He’s not mad at Tony, despite all their shouting, or Steve who refuses to bite back, or Nat who stole his chance, or even Bucky who dragged him back up to Tony’s suite. “I want him and Monroe to die.”

“You don’t.”

Peter’s head snaps back up. Tony doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he had a gun, he was going to -

“If you wanted him dead, he’d be dead. You had plenty of time.”

Its gets quiet. Not like the sharp and pointy silence that’s the same as the noise. More like rain hitting the window, crickets while looking up at the stars, water hitting the rocks along the Hudson river. Peter thought the noise only disappears when he shouts it away, thought it would leave him forever once he shot the bullet into Monroe, but he never thought it could be chased away with words. Another realization. Monroe had been right about just one thing. He didn’t have it in him to kill, didn’t truly want to see anyone dead or hurt. He just wants the rest of the kids out. Set free, like him.

“Besides, if they’re dead, we’ll never get to see them in prison,” says Tony. He leans back in the booth and rests his arm on the top of it. “Do you think an orange jumpsuit will make Norman look more or less like a goblin?”

A smile tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t allow it.

“We’re closer than you think,” says Tony. “To figuring this out. Bruce is working on the poison, and once he’s done, Monroe is finished.”

“Just him?”

“Osborn is tricky. I know he’s running things behind the scenes, but his name isn’t on anything. Not even a single check. Just knowing doesn’t get anybody a life sentence.”

“Plausible deniability?” asks Peter.

“Exactly, and that’s where you can help.”

“Really, how?”

“You’re read Norman’s biography, what, like twenty times by now? So you know all about his son.”

“Yup,” says Peter. “And I looked him up on Twitter. Seems like a tool.”

Tony grins at him. “Yeah, probably. But who knows? Maybe you two could be friends.”

Peter scoffs at that idea. He’s seen enough of Harry Osborn’s Twitter feed to know they could never be friends, but he also knows Tony isn’t an incompetent moron, like most adults, so he also understands. There’s only one other option.

“You want me to go undercover,” says Peter. “Like… a spy?”

“Sure. Like a spy.”

“That’s… so awesome. I’m in!”

Tony rests his head in his hand and gives Peter a hard look, studying him and it makes Peter want to shrink down into the booth. Lydia chooses this moment to come back with their drinks and take their order. Neither of them has looked in their menus long enough to decide on anything, so Tony orders them both dessert. She writes it down on a small notepad with the pencil she keeps behind her ear and walks away, throwing Tony a look of skepticism as she goes.

“It comes with some drawbacks,” he tells him, once she’s gone. “Want to consider those before jumping into something?”

Peter frowns at Tony’s tone.

“Never agree to do something when you don’t even know what’s involved.”

“Are you – are you lecturing me? It’s your plan!” says Peter. Then stops. Thinks. Experiencing something he hasn’t had a lot of experience with so far. “Wait, I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice.”

Peter wants to argue. He didn’t have a choice when his parents died, or when May and Ben died, or when he was ripped from reality and became a science experiment, but then, he did still have choices. Shoot Monroe, don’t shoot him. Punch in the code, don’t punch it in. Help Laney, don’t help her. He wishes he could see into the future the consequences of his choices or wishes Tony would make it for him and in doing so take the responsibility.

One of Peter’s choices got a girl killed. Clearly, he’s not good at making decisions.

“You’ll have to pretend to be someone else. Someone Harry Osborn thinks is worthy of hanging out with.” Tony lists the drawback without Peter having to ask. He dwells on those words a minute, processes them, and it isn’t hard to figure out what Tony means, especially when he looks back at the table of college students, then back at Peter. 

The drawback is being stared at and having strange people take photos of him while he tries to eat in diners and thinking of money in a way that’s really more like not thinking about money at all. It’s about being as rich and as famous as the Osborns, and there’s only one other name that rivals theirs.

In other words, it’s more than just a drawback. It’s unfair.

“You want me to pretend to be your son,” says Peter. He fiddles around with his napkin now that the menu is gone. It’s a betrayal. Wrong, maybe, but the memories of his dead family are so heavy leaving them behind, dropping them in this diner and never looking back, it’d be a relief. “That’s not undercover… that’s in the spotlight. No one would believe it.”

“Lydia does,” says Tony. He hitches his thumb behind him. “And so do those kids back there.”

Peter looks over at them. They’re no longer staring back. They are caught up in their own world, chatting about football games and parties and other pointless things. A wave of jealousy catches him by surprise. He can’t ever have what they have, conversations that are so normal they probably find them boring and friends to have them with.  Peter Parker can’t, but maybe if he pretends to be someone else, he can. Pretending to have something is better than not having it at all.

“I think more,” says Peter. “I think orange would make him look more like a goblin.”

It’s enough of an agreement for both of them.

Lydia brings their food and they spend the rest of their time eating pie and talking about things that aren’t related to the Osborns or to New Life. Light conversation. The noise is gone. The ghosts, the memories, are still there, but their opinions aren’t so heavy because Peter’s shoved them aside, he dumped them not on the side of the road, but on the other Peter, the one who hasn’t just agreed to live a double-life and pretend to be somebody else’s son.

He’s ignoring them. He’s betraying them and now he imagines them angry instead of opinionated. He doesn’t care. It’s a rush and it feels better than missing them.

They leave the diner and walk back out into the darkness. The semi is still in the parking lot and the driver stands nearby, playing with a lighter. He flicks it on and off, on and off.

_“You know how they like me to help.”_

Peter stops in the middle of the parking lot and stares at him, until the man stops and gives him a dirty look, until Tony grabs him by his collar and moves him along. He’d forgotten about One, still trapped and still embedded with a fatal tracker, at the facility with Monroe, carrying out his orders. A traitor. Seems wrong to forget about him. Seems wrong for him to be rescued with the others.

He makes a promise to himself. He won’t let that happen. 

* * *

Tony parks his car and stares at the boy asleep in the passenger’s side seat. Briefly, he considers letting him stay there. The idea of waking him up and creating the possibility of him refusing to go back to sleep is terrifying. He would like to get a few hours before he starts a new day, and Peter obviously can’t be trusted alone, at least at night. Tony makes a decision. He very carefully climbs out from his seat, gently shuts the door behind him and opens the passenger’s side door just as cautiously.

“Hey,” he pushes on his arm and Peter makes a mumbling sound, indication he’s at least on the verge of consciousness. Tony doesn’t wait until he’s all the way there. He pulls him out of the car by his arm and makes sure he’s oriented enough to stand before shutting the door with his foot. He wraps an arm around his shoulders and they move towards the elevator, Tony doing most of the work, but he doesn’t care if it means he’s asleep when they get up to the suite.

Peter doesn’t make a sound until after they get into his bedroom and Tony helps him into the bed. He lays down, head on the pillows, and then he waits until Tony thinks he’s home free and headed to bed. He’s in the middle of the room. He’s halfway to the door.

“Tony.”

He stops but doesn’t turn around.

“I miss my family.”

So much for getting a few hours of sleep. He turns back, walks across the empty space to his bed and sits down.

“I know. You haven’t been fooling anyone.”

“I thought the memories would go away… but they’re still here,” he sits up and uses his elbows as supports. He tilts his head at him. “I think my mom probably would have hated you.”

“She sounds smart,” says Tony.

“No, my dad was the smart one.” He falls back into the pillows. “He was a biochemist.”

“Your dad was a high school biology teacher.”

He regrets saying it as soon as the words leave his mouth, or rather, the way in which he says it, dismissive, but he’s right. Tony looked into anyone involved in Peter’s life the day they brought him back from New Life. He had FRIDAY scan him, he pulled their files, and he learned everything there is to know about Peter Parker. Probably, he knows more about him than Peter knows about himself.

“Just during the day,” says Peter. “He went to a lab at night. He worked two jobs, but we never had any money, strange, huh?”

Strange. More than strange. Not… right.

“Go back to sleep,” he tells him, and there’s no fight. Peter blinks a couple of times, then his eyes flutter shut, bringing Tony to realize he hadn’t been properly awake that entire interaction. Should’ve figured. He’s never that honest.

Tony leaves Peter’s room, but he doesn’t make a move for his bed. His feet carry him back into the living room and he sees, perhaps for the first time, the messy state his suite has gotten into. Now he understands the judgement coming from Bruce and Bucky. He’s going to have to clean it up, clear out all these worthless piles of research, or rather, pay someone to do it for him. He’s going to have to put real food in his cabinets, but most importantly, he needs to install FRIDAY with soundproofing technology.

But first… heads to his laptop and stares at the screen.

Tony shouldn’t be doing this. He doesn’t particularly want to do it, but he needs to know. He tells himself it’s about the mission, because if Richard Parker ever worked with Norman Osborn, well that’s a wrench in the plan. They already have to cross their fingers and hope Peter isn’t recognized by Osborn, that Monroe is too terrified to tell him when he figures out the boy is alive, but now they have to worry about him being recognized in a different way.

And there’s also a part of him that knows it’s about more than the mission, more than Oscorp and keeping Peter safe while he throws him out on the frontlines. Digging up dirt on a dead man after stealing his son can really only hurt the living, but there’s a part of him that wants it to be true, that wants to find something terrible, just like he needed to find out all of Osborn’s secrets, because both men have something he’s never had. And there’s a truth to be tested. One Tony knows too well.

Sins of the father will always haunt the son.  

He makes a vow to himself. That Peter never finds out, if there’s anything at all to find out, and then he creates a new folder on his desktop. He labels it Richard Parker. And that night, he doesn’t sleep.


	9. peter breaks through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for clicking on my story and reading!! 
> 
> I'm hoping to post the next chapter by Wednesday, fingers crossed. Thursday at the latest!

  1. peter breaks through



When restlessness turns into misery, Peter opts to stay with Tony.

He’s familiar, the most familiar, and nights with him are always unpredictable. They go back to the diner, and some nights, they go other places. There are occasions where Peter falls asleep in the car before they ever reach a destination. He falls asleep thinking about stars and the speed of light and how there’s no way of knowing if anyone else sees the world the same way, even sees colors the same way, as he does. The morning after these sort of nights, he wakes up in his bed, no idea how he got there, but also, not really caring enough to investigate.  

Some nights the misery is too heavy for the car to carry, and Tony takes him to his workshop. It’s a huge room somewhere underneath the compound, filled with everything and anything necessary for Tony to continue to improve his Iron Man suits. It’s impressive the way Tony’s thoughts are turned into reality and Peter is happy to help him, happier still when Tony isn’t interested in working on his suits and retreats to his desk off in the corner, because on those nights, Peter gets to spin his own thoughts into inventions.

He never shows them to Tony. He’s afraid he won’t approve.

It’s an odd night when they wander down to see Bruce in his lab. Stepping inside, Peter’s reminded of the night he first saw Tony’s suite. It’s a mess, and Bruce is in the center of it, sitting on a stool in front of some test tubes, guzzling down a cup of coffee as he stares intently at a spare piece of graph paper with handwritten notes scratched across it. Tony guides Peter to the office part of the lab, with Bruce’s desk and behind it, a couch with a comforter draped over it. Apparently, it’s been a long time since Bruce has slept in his own bed.

Tony takes something out of his pocket, unfolds them and once Peter recognizes what they are, what’s going on, he lets out a groan. Unfolded all the way, the object turns into over the ear headphones, the kind Tony designed just for Peter, the kind that prevents him from hearing anything, even if nothing is pumping through the speakers.

“Aww, come on,” says Peter. He refuses to take the headphones Tony tries to push on him.

“Sorry, the grown-ups are going to have a conversation now,” says Tony. He plugs the headphones into a laptop sitting on Bruce’s desk and pushes both of them into Peter’s hands. He tumbles down into the couch with the force. “Bruce has Netflix. Watch something.”

He looks up at Tony, and with an annoyed sigh, slings the headphones over his ears. He complains about them, but actually, they’re nice. He’s used to hearing everything. It’s fresh air to hear nothing. He considers taking them off, listening in anyway, but FRIDAY is always watching and as soon as Peter opens the laptop, he’s greeted with Netflix, already opened. A show grabs his attention. It’s something relatable, so he watches it and thirty minutes into episode one, he falls asleep.

When restlessness turns into emptiness, he finds Nat and Clint, who are usually in the common area. They let him sample their drinks, but just a sip, no matter how many times Peter tries to explain to them about his metabolism. They teach him how to play poker, or more importantly, they teach him how to bluff. He’s not good at it at first. It’s just like lying. He can never get his face to match his words when they aren’t the truth, but eventually, he gets better. He catches on, but he’s never good enough to fool either of them.

It isn’t until they’re joined by another avenger, one that’s a stranger to him, that Peter wins a hand. He’s sitting on the floor, arms laid on the glass coffee table where they play, with Nat and Clint somewhere on the couch behind him. Peter reveals his hand to the dumb-founded man sitting across from him.

“You cheated,” says Scott, sitting on the other side of the table. His words are more lost than certain, and he begins looking at the cards Peter laid faceup on the table, as if he expects them to be counterfeit.

“What’s wrong, Lang? Can’t handle getting beat by a kid?” asks Nat.

Scott eyes the two sitting on the couch. “You two helped.”

Peter takes all the chips. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

“He owes me fifty bucks,” says Clint, snatching the bill from Scott before Peter can take it. “I’ll take that off your tab.”

When restlessness turns into anger, Peter spends the night in the gym with Steve. 

Sometimes they throw punches at each other. Steve holds back. Peter doesn’t, but it’s okay. He’s learned he can punch as hard as he wants, try as hard as he can, but he can never really hurt the super-solider. All of his energy gets thrown into it, all of the rage and the fear and the times he wanted to punch back but couldn’t. It gets burnt up fast, and he’s back in the suite quick those nights, ready for a shower and then, ready to pass out on his bed, wet hair making his pillow damp and uncomfortable.

It doesn’t matter. He’s asleep too fast for it to bother him.

Other times, like tonight, Steve holds the punching bag and Peter simply hits. Imagining he’s hitting more than a punching bag. It’s Monroe or Norman Osborn, but more often than not, the punching bag takes the form of One. There isn’t a plan for his downfall yet, just his rescue, and that’s fuel enough for his most impactful punches. He plants one in the center of the bag, and if Peter didn’t know any better, he would say he saw Steve readjust his footing afterward.

“Done for the night?” asks Steve, after Peter quit punching. There’s surprise in the question. It’s early. Even for gym nights.

“Steve,” says Peter. Thinking. Thinking of a way to phrase his question without making it sound suspicious. “What would you do if you had to face a natural enemy?”

“A natural enemy?” Steve repeats, one eyebrow raised. That obviously hadn’t been successful, and a bad way to phrase his question, but he still hasn’t figured out a way to make his webbing fireproof.

“Yeah,” says Peter. “You know, have you ever seen that superhero show on Netflix? There’s this one guy, who’s weak to these rocks from space – “

“That sounds stupid.” 

“Well it is. But it’s a good show,” says Peter. He shakes his head, getting back on to the point. “Anyway, what I’m trying to ask is, how would you beat a guy with space rocks if you were weak to them?” 

Steve lets go on the punching bag, and it swings gently on its ropes without a force holding it still. He’s considering Peter, analyzing his question, trying to find something wrong with it, like his motive, but Peter pretends he’s playing poker. He keeps a straight face, or at least, he tries. It’s still hard not to fold under scrutiny.

“Why are you asking this?”

“Just curious.”

Steve’s face says he doesn’t believe him, but he answers the question anyway. “I would call that an obvious weakness, so you look for a complex advantage. Study how they fight, not what they fight with. A personality weakness is more easily exploited than… umm, space rocks?”

Other nights, the restlessness is hard to define. It’s presence creeps through his bones and crawls through his thoughts no matter what he’s doing, no matter who he’s with, so he leaves it up to fate. Tonight, he’s uneasy on the couch in the common area of the compound, where they normally laugh and play cards, and he’s alone, but only because Clint had to take a call from his family into the other room. He’s lost on the cellphone Tony makes him carry around, scrolling through the social media feed, even though he doesn’t belong to any of the networks. Staring at other people’s lives through the glass is overwhelming. He’ll never be convincing enough to fit in with any of them, let alone Harry Osborn.

Peter sits up straight when he hears footsteps approaching, and watches as Bucky enters the common area, not sparing him a glance as he fast-walks across it and heads to the other side, moving towards the hall that leads to the lobby.

“Hey, wait!” Peter scrambles off the couch and races across the room, but his rush of adrenaline ends once he’s standing in front of Bucky, who’s towering and intimidating, even with his metal arm covered by a thin, long-sleeved black shirt. “…where are you going?”

“Outside.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Is it going to be a repeat of last time?”

Peter doesn’t like thinking about that night, and wants to remark that it’s already different, by the very nature he’s asking permission to go, instead of sneaking out of his bedroom window, but he manages to hold his tongue. Getting smart, as Tony calls it, will not get him anywhere, and he desperately wants to go somewhere, wants to be outside where the air is fresh and not suffocating, where the stars decorate the sky.

“No,” says Peter.

“Then come on.”

Peter sends Clint a text explaining where he went, and then follows Bucky as he makes his way out of the compound. They are out the front doors quickly and the breeze that greets Peter is familiar. He’s forgotten how much he misses it. Just being outside. It didn’t happen at the facility, and at the compound, it doesn’t happen often enough.

They don’t speak as they walk towards the track, but it isn’t the comfortable quiet him and Tony share when they’re driving in the car. It’s the sort of silence that happens when no one knows what to say, and the awkwardness is obvious to both parties. As they keep walking, and it becomes clear to Peter that Bucky isn’t going to be the first to speak, he looks up. It’s a good night for stargazing. The sky is black and clear and lit up from the light of the moon, with a little help from the stars.

But because looking straight up at the sky and walking isn’t a good combination, he runs straight into Bucky’s back, not realizing the man had come to a sudden stop.

“Oh, sorry Mr. – “

“Bucky,” he says. Then he looks at Peter. “What’s so interesting up there?”

Peter looks up again. His thoughts spill out. There’s too many of them to hold. “It’s sort of like looking into the past. We’re so far away… even at the speed of light, it takes _years_ for the light from the stars to get to us. And we’ll never see the stars as they are now, just as they were…" 

“Does that bother you?”

“Yes,” says Peter, looking away from the sky, back at Bucky’s blank face. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No. I’ve never thought about it,” says Bucky. “You shouldn’t spend so much time looking into the past, though. Especially if you don’t like what you see.”

He turns, and continues walking, leaving Peter to question what is about his past, his memories, that makes him so eager to be rid of them, besides the obvious four years in hell. He should want to remember his parents, but he doesn’t. Those memories. They seem wrong. He rather bury them, he rather pretend. He should want to remember his aunt and uncle, but he only wants them to stick around when he’s happy, when he’s laughing with Tony or Nat or Clint and he can feel them laughing, too.

Peter breaks into a run to catch up with Bucky, and when they fall into more silence, he can’t let it continue.

“Do you come out here a lot at night?” 

“Yes. You’re welcome to join me, anytime.”

“Thanks,” says Peter. “But I won’t be here much longer. I’m moving to the city, with Tony, for the mi – “

“-Don’t call it a mission,” Bucky interrupts with a soft voice, but Peter can tell, he’s fighting hard to control his tone.

Tony’s announcement to the rest of the team that Peter would be going undercover to steal Osborn’s secrets didn’t go over smoothly. Peter couldn’t hear the details. He’d been trapped in his bedroom with Tony’s annoying soundproofing protocol activated, and he hadn’t heard a thing. He did sense the mood afterward. It wasn’t great, and it’s the same mood that’s radiating off of Bucky now.

“What should I call it, then?” Peter challenges. He doesn’t appreciate the lack of faith in him, or the hostility towards Tony, who’s just trying to help. 

Bucky accepts. “A dog-fight, and you’re one of the dogs. You think you’re fighting to get the truth, but really, you’re just fighting for Stark’s ego.”

This time Peter stops, and he can feel the fire growing under his eyes. Tony wouldn’t do that to him, he wouldn’t put him in that situation for anything less than seeing a monster put away where he belongs. He takes several steps backwards to meet Bucky’s stare, and he crosses his arms.

“You’re wrong,” says Peter, and then he turns, walks in the opposite direction and heads back towards the compound. Bucky doesn’t follow him, and just to spite him, Peter takes one last look into the past before he goes back inside the compound.

Starlight traveling at the full speed of light. Stars that will only ever exist in the past. Memories that can only be seen for what they were and not what they really are.

* * *

 

“Nice shirt, Nat,” says Clint. He appears out of nowhere, and as soon as she steps into the lobby of the compound.

She stops, glares at him, then continues walking. He falls in line by her side, while she straightens her dark blue button up shirt and purposefully ignores her black dress lacks. Interview clothes. Not interview clothes Natasha would wear, but clothes Natalie Mullens, single mother of two, would wear. Bad clothes were only one part of the equation, the easiest part, the costume, but luckily, she’s a good actress and the whole world is a stage.

She said all the right things. She asked all the right questions and she laughed at all his jokes. Not in an obvious and obnoxious way. In a subtle, small way. There’s a difference. One is desperate, the other is charming, and that’s all that really matters when it comes to job interviews and first impressions, which really, are exactly the same thing.

Never mind being qualified, although Nat does have documentation claiming that fact, whether it’s lying or not, Principal Morita never checked. Barely looked at it. He’d been too caught up talking with her.

“You have to look the part,” she tells him, as they enter a large hallway, lit only by the sunshine streaming in through the windows. They both come to a stop, look at each other knowingly and shift their eyes towards the ceiling without tilting their heads. “We know you’re up there.”

There’s some scuffing to be heard, up from the ceiling, and then seconds later, Peter lands in front of them with a crash. The hard fall doesn’t seem to affect him whatsoever. He’s too busy messing around with a metal device clasped around his right wrist, pushing a button and watching as nothing happens. He groans, lets his head fall against the floor, and looks up at them.

“You weren’t even caught off guard, like, a little bit?” 

This new game, if she can call it a game, sprang up a week ago. He tries and fails to sneak up on her, to scare her, because he can’t grasp someone being so talented without enhanced senses. Super powers are given, but talent is made, over years and years and years of practice. Peter only sees the results. He can’t see how she got there. It drives him crazy.

“No.”

“Breathing too loud again?”

“Thinking too loud,” she says.

“You can hear people think?” He’s twisting his face the way he does when he’s trying to figure out and piece together a problem. Watching his thoughts move so fast is almost as entertaining as watching him and Tony go back forth at each other.

“You can’t?” She raises an eyebrow at him, and his confusion breaks. A small smile forms in its place. It’s something that was once rare, in the beginning, but as time passes, is becoming much more common. Sometimes, she even catches him laughing.

Clint extends his hand to help him up, and he accepts it, springing to his feet and following them as they continue down the hall.

“What’s that?” asks Clint, pointing the metal around his wrist.

“Oh, this?” He runs in front of them, then starts walking backwards, to show off whatever gadget Nat is sure he made on one of those nights he spends in the workshop with Tony. On those nights restlessness takes over. “It’s a web-shooter! Or it’s going to be, you know, so I can swing around like spiders do, almost like flying…!” He lowers his voice, his animated excitement still there, only now it’s focused on a problem. “It doesn’t work right yet… the web fluid gets stuck in the blaster…” 

He’s still walking backwards, but his attention has turned. Now it belongs to the web-shooter prototype, and that’s something Nat can’t imagine is Tony-approved. For someone who doesn’t seem to mind putting Peter in a risky situation, he’s at least safety conscious and becoming more so each day. He has to be to ask her to sacrifice her sanity and take up a post in a high school.

“Does Tony know you’re trying to propel yourself from ceilings?”

“Well,” says Peter, looking up from the web-shooter, meeting her eyes. “He doesn’t _not_ know about it.”

“Oh, great,” says Clint. “Can we be there when you tell him?”

Nat has a better question. “What do you mean he doesn’t not know?”

“I’m not keeping a secret,” he says. Then shrugs. “He’s just busy." 

They all stop walking, and Nat observes him, testing the lie for its weak point. He doesn’t break eye-contact or move his feet or fidget with anything. He doesn’t do anything of the things Peter usually does when he’s lying. The poker lessons, along with Tony’s basic lessons, are paying off, and she has no doubt he’ll at least be believable enough to fool his peers, but he’ll never be able to lie to her. It’s a benefit of being one of his teachers. She knows all his tells.

She makes a mental note to warn Tony about the possibility of a flying spider-boy later. He’s not the only one who knows super powers don’t make young boys invincible.

“Are you even supposed to be down here?” asks Clint. Another good question. Peter doesn’t normally roam around the compound unsupervised. All sorts of people are in and out, anyone of them could be a potential leak.  

“Tony says it’s fine. He doesn’t want me in the suite because he’s working on something top-secret.”

“Is that what he said?”

Peter shrugs. “No. But it’s what he meant.”

He tells them goodbye, and is on his way, citing that he needs to go and talk to Bruce. About what, Nat doesn’t know, and he’s off before she can ask. They both watch him as he goes, practically running, and almost running into someone as he passes them.

“He seems better,” says Clint.

 “He’s getting there. Hopefully tomorrow doesn’t ruin it.”

“He’ll be fine. We’ll both be there watching, if something happens.”

“Both?”

“Tony didn’t tell you? I’m the newest recruit in the security detail.”

Seems like a little much for a fancy charity event. Especially an event meant to blindside Osborn and gage his reaction to the boy he may or may not recognize. If Tony’s going overboard on security, well it isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Just means Nat had been correct that night on the balcony with Bruce. Peter’s a good influence on Tony, whether or not he’s a good one on him, remains to be seen.

* * *

 

Tony leans against the kitchen sink and watches Peter stare at the plate of spaghetti in front of him. He picks up the fork, slowly wraps spaghetti strands around it and brings it up to his mouth, then stops. He cringes at Tony, begging him with his stupidly persuasive brown eyes to not make him eat it, but when Tony is silent, he takes a small bite. He chews it, swallows and then his expression changes.

“This actually isn’t terrible,” says Peter. He eats another bite, then another and Tony releases a deep breath.

A man who’s never had to cook for himself in his life and a picky eater. They’re a match made in heaven. 

Peter eats two plates filled with spaghetti before bolting off to his bedroom, forgetting his plate on the kitchen table and giving Tony no choice but to rinse it off and place it in the dishwasher himself. Seconds later he follows him back to his room and opens his door. Peter shoots up from where he’s sitting on the floor next to his bed. Looking guilty. Looking like he’s bursting with secrets. 

And Tony’s heard from both Nat and Steve that the boys got plenty of them.

“Do you ever knock?”

“When you pay the bills, you don’t have to knock,” says Tony. “What are you hiding under your bed?”

“N-nothing.”

“Nat told me about your spider web thing. Show me. I’m curious.” 

With a sigh, he moves his foot under the bed and kicks out the web-shooter prototype. He picks it up and throws it to Tony, then sits on his bed and watches him, gripping the edges of his mattress. Tony examines it, impressed that by its quality and kicking himself for not noticing what Peter had been up to all those nights they spent in the workshop together. Tony finds a button, presses down on it and something shoots out from the front and sticks to the wall, looking very much like an overgrown spider web.

“Really can’t get past the spider thing, huh?”

“I’m embracing the meme.”

Tony stalks across the room and touches the substance. He tries to peel it off, but it won’t budge. It’s too strong, and it’s stuck too tight.

“You made this by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

He walks over and hands the web-shooter back to him. Peter takes it hesitantly, as though he expects Tony to snatch it away at the last second. “This is really good, Pete. Well done.”

“Really? You’re not mad?”

“No. Just don’t go jumping off anything crazy, until we can test it out, alright?” asks Tony, and Peter nods his head. “And you need another one. One for each hand.” 

“I don’t want… I don’t like anything on this wrist.” He holds up his left wrist. The one that’s only healed on the outside.

Tony can’t fault him there, so instead, he moves on to the other secret. These conversations, the ones after dinner, where Tony picks through Peter’s thoughts and gets rid of the ones he doesn’t like, are becoming familiar, but they are necessary. It’s like cleaning. He can’t let the mess build up if he doesn’t want to deal with a bigger one later. 

“Is it fireproof?” 

“Huh?” Peter almost drops the web-shooter on the floor, but quickly recovers.

“The webbing? Is it fireproof?”

“No.” 

“Oh, because Steve told me you said something interesting the other night,” says Tony. “And I was sitting here trying to piece it together and I realized what’s more of a natural enemy to spiders than fire…?”

“…Insecticide?”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

Peter groans and falls backwards on his bed.

“Forget about the psycho kid with fire hands,” says Tony. “He’s not your problem to solve.”  

He sits back up after a couple of seconds of silence. “But just say I see him – “

“-When would that ever happen?”

“Just say that it does – “

“-Then you turn around and walk the other way and call one of us to take care of it for you.”

Peter looks unhappy at the offered solution, almost as if Tony has stolen something important from him, but he doesn’t argue about it anymore. He stares at him, waiting for him to continue talking, and Tony takes this as a sign that the troublesome thought is dealt with and gone. 

“Promise me,” says Tony.

“I promise.”

And at first, Tony is relieved to hear him say those words, but he’s not. They match his face, but they are still wrong. He’s lying. He’s making a promise he doesn’t intend to keep, and the kicker is, Tony almost believed him. It causes him pause. Causes him to look at the boy in front of him and remember him as he was the night he found Tony in his dark suite, knee-deep in Osborn research. And then there’s doubt. Doubt that he’s doing the right thing by putting Peter front and center in an undercover operation, even one at a high school. 

But he shakes it off. Mind over matter. He moves on.

“Who are you hanging out with tonight?”

“Oh, I think I’m just going to watch Netflix and go to bed.”

Tony places a hand on his forehead. “Are you sick?”

“No,” says Peter, laughing. He shakes Tony’s hand away. “Just tired. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow’s going to be longer, you know?” 

He’s right. Tomorrow will be a long day, but Tony can’t help feeling a little… sad. In an odd way. He’s gotten used to late nights in the car with someone to keep him company. He’s gotten used to sharing his workshop with Peter, but he supposes if the restlessness is going away, he should be happy for him.

“I thought TV’s a waste of time.”

Peter hits him with a grim expression and gets up from his bed to rummage around for pajamas in his dresser. He turns his head back at him. “Don’t make it a big deal, please.”

“Okay, I’ll make some popcorn instead.”  

“You’re going to watch with me?”

“Why not? What else do I have to do if I’m not driving you around the state of New York?”

“Awesome,” says Peter, grinning at him and pulling a t-shirt from a drawer. He points a finger Tony’s way. “But I’m going to have to catch you up, cause I’m not starting all over just for you.” 

He exits into his bathroom with his clothes folded under his hand to take a shower, leaving Tony standing in his bedroom alone, just his thoughts to keep him company. He does have better things to do. Continue his disturbing dive into Richard Parker’s dark history of proposing all the wrong theories. Improve his suit. Obsess over of the possible complications sure to come to them once Pepper makes the press release, once Monroe sees the news plastered around over the internet.

But he’s still shaken by the lie. The ease at which it left Peter’s lips. Maybe spending time with him will help prevent another one. Maybe.

He leaves the room. He makes popcorn.


	10. dark and sinister man, proud and insolent youth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! All of you guys in the comment section are amazing!
> 
> I'm shooting for the next chapter to be out early next week, unless things get crazy!!

  1. dark and sinister man, proud and insolent youth



 

“Don’t you dare touch that tie,” says Tony, without looking up from his phone, and Peter’s hand falls hopelessly back down to his side.

It’s too tight. It’s choking him, and he’s pretty sure the suit, the costume he’s wearing, will swallow him whole. Eat him alive, and there won’t be anything left of him once it’s done. Only Peter Stark will remain. Freshly discovered, but ultimately illegitimate, heir to billions. He thinks maybe he should allow it to happen, this disappearing into his character, because Peter Parker is still a lost boy, officially, at least. Missing. A cold case at the very bottom of a draw in a detective’s office somewhere. Things aren’t safe for Peter Parker. Not until New Life is in ruins. Not until the name Parker is scrubbed from their records and his abilities can be kept a secret from those dark and sinister people who’d use it against him.  

Or at least that’s what Tony explained to him while he tightened the tie around his neck, after Peter asked why he couldn’t use his own last name. Tony didn’t tell him whole reason. A part of it is missing. Something important. He decides that secret part, the thing Tony isn’t telling him, bothers him more than being called Stark. He’s no more Peter Stark than Nat is a mother of two hailing from the suburbs, after all, but the secret breeds suspicion. Makes him worry Bucky may have been right. At least part of the way.

The longer he’s free from the facility, the more he grows to realize things are never just one way or the other. Things move in all different directions, even if they’re opposites. Even if it doesn’t make any sense. The complexity of both/and instead of either/or becomes more apparent each day, and it makes Peter have to consider the idea it’s possible for Bucky to be both wrong and right at the same time, the same way he’s both terrified of forgetting his family and simultaneously wants his memories of them to disappear.

“I can’t breathe,” says Peter. His hand moves back up to loosen the tie, but Tony seizes it, cuts him with a glare, and so when he gets his hand back, he grips the edge of the barstool instead.

“Let me see it,” says Pepper. She approaches from somewhere behind him, tall in her high heels and when her hand moves to readjust his tie, it doesn’t get smacked away. “Oh my god, Tony, were you trying to strangle him?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” says Tony to Peter, then directs to Pepper. “I was trying to keep it on him. He wouldn’t quit twitching.”

Pepper fixes the tie, and once she’s done, Peter sends Tony a look of triumph the man pretends to ignore. He takes a sip from his whiskey, ice cubes clinking against the glass as he does, and Peter gets caught under a wave of jealously. He wants something to calm his nerves, he wants to be old enough to have it, but most of all, he wants to be normal enough to benefit from its effects.

“Now neither of you are allowed to touch it. It’s perfect,” she says, and retreats back to dining room, shoes clicking against the flooring of the penthouse.

Peter thought meeting her would be awkward, but it hadn’t been. She had greeted him with a warm smile early that morning when they arrived, scolded Tony for making the commute too early, led him to his new bedroom, so he could go back to sleep if he wanted, and then she left him alone to get settled.

His room in the penthouse is bigger than his bedroom back at the compound. It has its own living room sitting off in the corner, with a couch and a giant a bean bag chair in front of a flat-screen TV incased in an entertainment center. It’s hooked up with all the latest gaming systems. Very expensive things that Peter will probably never use. It has its own office in another corner, with a computer sitting on a large desk and mostly empty bookshelves along the wall, waiting to be filled. Even the connecting bathroom is bigger. The closet is three times the size of his room at the facility, and there’s a windowed balcony near his bed, sitting center against the back wall.

It’s got an excellent view, but despite its height, Peter still can’t see Queens.

Just a month ago, the size of his room at the compound made his head spin. He didn’t know what to do with all the empty space, but this time, it’s not the vastness that bothers him. It’s the permanence. He’s not sleeping in a guestroom with generic furniture. It’s his room. Pepper had chosen everything with care and had somehow gotten it right, down to the few books sitting on the shelf and the varying shades of blue covering the walls.

They never talk about what’s going to happen after the mission is over, but earlier when Peter looked at his new room for the first time, it had been made obvious. What Tony doesn’t acknowledge with words, he makes clear with gestures like this one. Part of him is happy, wants to be happy, and there’s another part of him that wants to look out his window and see Queens.

The ding of the elevator breaks Peter from his thoughts and he looks over as a man in a black suit enters the penthouse. He strides towards them with confidence, whether it’s earned or not, Peter doesn’t know. He’s reminded of the guards back at New Life, and if he weren’t so obviously in an upscale penthouse, his mind might have flung him backwards in time.

“Meet your new best friend,” says Tony. He pulls him off the barstool by his elbow and shoves him forward in front of the guard-man. He looks down at Peter just as apathetically as Peter blinks up at him. A mutual disregard. Neither of them pleased to meet the other. “Happy’s going to prevent you from being murdered, kidnapped, or tramped on by the media.”

“Is that your real name?” asks Peter. Looks him up and down. “Or is it meant to be ironic?”

“It’s my real name.”

His frown grows deeper. “What’s your super-power?”

His question gets no answer, but he watches as Tony smirks at Happy and hears a snort coming from the dining room.

“Really, boss? This kid?” asks Happy. “You couldn’t employ a polite child to do your bidding?”

“If he were polite, he’d never be passable as my child,” says Tony. “He’ll grow on you. And kid, be nice, alright?”

Tony taps on his watch, indicating to Happy that he’s late, and by extension, they are all late, although Peter swears he remembers Tony telling Pepper he wanted to show up passed the time on the invitation intentionally. They all march into the elevator, across the floor of the lobby and into the empty, silence street where Happy’s parked the car. Peter expected the paparazzi, but when they are greeted with none, he’s not relieved. It’s silent. The kind of silent when the sky turns a strange color before a nasty storm.

They get into the car, and Happy pulls them forward, towards Norman Osborn’s charity gala.

They’re going to blindside him. They are going to steal his show and make it so no one is talking about all the money Norman raises for the children’s hospital. They will be too busy talking about Tony Stark’s new son. It’s a petty dig at a cruel man and Peter isn’t sure suffering though all the attention he’s about to get is worth the trouble. Of course, it’s also to see if Norman recognizes him, to read his reaction, but the way Tony revels in the idea of stealing the man’s night causes Peter to worry it may be more about the former.

Unable to mess with the tie while he sits between Tony and Pepper, his thumbs battle it out.

“Doing alright, Pete?” asks Tony.

He nods his head.

Tony’s using the same tone he used back in Peter’s new bedroom, when he helped Peter figure out how to put on the suit and offered him one last chance to back out of this charade. One last chance to just wait it out until Bruce comes through with an antidote and the Avengers bust the door down to New Life, but Peter can’t do that. He needs this, or at least, he thinks he does. He needs to be part of the process, a cog in the machine that will dismantle the lives of the people who crushed his normal. He refused his last chance, Tony shouted at Pepper via FRIDAY to send the press release, and then Peter allowed him to put the tie around his neck. Kind of. He had been sort of twitchy. 

The car stops in front of a fancy, stone building, and that’s where the news vans, reporters and ordinary people with their cell phones out have come to gather to get a good look at him. They’re all ready for the show, but Peter’s getting stage fright. He’s getting regretful. Maybe Tony’s right. Maybe he should think about things a little more thoroughly before jumping into them.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” he says. It’s a quiet yes, but it’s also a strong one.

Peter follows Tony out of the car, and once his feet are on the ground, Happy’s hand closes around his arm and he begins pulling him forward, passed the people with their phones and cameras, but even he’s not imposing enough to keep the cameras from snapping. The lights from their flashes are incredibly blinding.

* * *

Meeting Norman Osborn turns out to be no big deal.

On the outside.

Onlookers can’t see or feel the what’s happening beneath the surface.

Peter’s head is fuzzy, and he’s still a little dazed from the camera flashes when Tony grips his shoulder, tight, and the man who looks like a goblin can be seen approaching them from across sparkling, glittering ballroom. The noise is his head is back, loud and unrelenting, accompanied by the whispers directed at his turned back, accompanied by a sea of men and women dressed in stunning gowns and sleek suits. Adults whispering about him, whispering about Tony, whispering about Pepper, and as Norman grows closer, his form becomes both more defined and washed-out, at the same time.

“Stark,” says Norman, and Peter thinks he can feel Tony’s fingernails digging at him through his suit jacket, as if he thinks Norman might snatch him and make a run for it. “I must say I’m a little surprised you have time for us. I would think as one of - what is it they call you – oh that’s right, earth’s mightiest heroes, you would be too busy to consort with us.”

“Well, you know, it’s for a good cause. Saving the children and all that.”

If Norman caught on to the double-meaning, he doesn’t show it.

“Ahh yes, the children’s hospital,” says Norman. His eyes fall on Peter, and there’s no recognition there. Disdain. Clear disgust. Darker than the initial dislike shared between Peter and Happy. But there’s no recognition. Tony does not loosen his grip. “I wasn’t very surprised to hear about this one, however. With your past, there will probably be a dozen more coming forward by tomorrow morning.”

The noise turns up. It echoes. It stirs the familiar feeling of being talked about like he’s not standing right there instead of addressed directly. And Peter wants to speak up, to say something, to prove he’s there, but his mouth is cotton and his brain isn’t working. For the second time that day, he’s fighting not to be tossed backwards in time, to a place he never wants to see again, but Tony readjusts his grip. He’s here. Peter’s still here.

Norman gives them both a calculating look. Piecing together something strange is unfolding, by Peter’s angry expression, by Tony’s lack of combative dialogue. His gaze lingers on Peter, and boy and man lock eyes. “Hang on to this one, though. He’s very well-behaved.”

It’s a taunt, though Peter is sure Norman doesn’t know where it lands or why it’s effective, and Peter shuffles forward, or tries to. Tony keeps him in place.

“My own is around here somewhere… probably serving up trouble,” he looks around. “I never can seem to find him. If you’ll excuse me.”

Peter stands with Tony and watches Norman disappear into the crowd. His thoughts race, they scream, they beg for justice and they’re like bullhorn to his ears. Yelling at him, because the man with Laney’s blood on his hands, the man who’s ruined his life and the lives so many others, just walked away. And Peter didn’t do anything. He stood by, silent, letting the grown-ups talk.

“Take some breaths,” says Tony. He’s calm and steady, bringing Peter to realize he’s shaking. “Let go of it. Move on and think about the day he’s locked up in prison." 

He moves him to a table where Pepper is already seated, puts a glass of ice water in his hand and forces him into a chair, while he stays standing. He chats with Nat and Clint into a microphone no one can see. They’re in the clear, or at least Tony’s convinced they are. Peter still doesn’t like the way Norman looked at him.  

He presses his thumb along the frosted glass, making lines in the condensation and feeling miserable. Regretful as he watches very mundane people disguised in very extraordinary clothing dance around the room, engaging in rumors and gossip, supporting a charity that’s just one big show, one big coverup for a man participating in crimes against children. The thought of his new bedroom hits him hard again.

This is his life now. It’s permanent and he can’t go back. Even when he’s Peter Parker again, his role will always cast a shadow.

“I take it everything went well?” asks Pepper, looking back and forth between them. Tony growls, Peter shrugs and she spots someone from across the room she needs to talk with, leaving them alone.

“I’m going to find Harry,” says Peter, abrupt and pushing himself up from the chair. He can’t take it anymore, cannot sit still and do nothing, and the faster he gets what he needs to finish Norman, the faster it’s over.

Tony looks at him, doubt and worry stretched across his face, but Peter cuts him off before he can say anything to prevent him from leaving.

“I’m fine,” he tells him. “Really.”

He lets him go, but it’s a mistake. Peter is barely across the room and into the crowd before he starts to suffocate, before he desperately needs some kind of escape from the whispering and the stares. He finds one. A stone arch entry way leading to an outdoor balcony. He flees to it, relishing the breeze as it hits his face, letting the fresh air fill his lungs, and there’s nobody around to watch him out there, so Peter loosens the tie Pepper told him not to touch.

Or at least, he thought no one was around.

“Are you freaking out?”

Peter’s head snaps over to his right and he sees Harry Osborn, casually sitting up on the balcony’s stone ledge, with a glass of champagne in his hand. His black hair is slicked back, and he doesn’t look like an imposter in his suit the way Peter does in his. He looks so normal, and nothing at all like Norman. It’s a welcome relief.

“It’s okay if you are, but you’ve got to give me some warning if you’re going to puke, so I can scram,” says Harry. “I just got over a nasty cold – I blame public air travel. I just don’t think my immune system can handle another foreign invasion without crashing.”

Peter blinks at him. Releases a breath. Nat’s advice to be relatable flashes through his mind. “I got sick on my dad’s jet this summer.”

“It’s the worst, isn’t it? But at least you were flying private. I thought I was going to die in coach.”

“I’ve flown coach before,” says Peter. He hasn’t. He’s never been on a proper plane, but he’s guessing Harry doesn’t actually know what it’s like to stare death in the face. They’re even. “It’s not that bad.”

“Well, yeah,” says Harry. “But that’s because you’re used to that sort of thing. I know who you are. You’re all anyone can talk about tonight. Stark, right? Didn’t even know your own dad’s Iron Man ‘til now. Shame…” He sighs, gives Peter another look and puts down his champagne. “Is that why you’re freaking out?”

“I’m not freaking out.” But it comes out more high-pitched, more panicked, than he would have liked it to.

“Are you sure? Because you look like you’re having some trouble breathing over there…” 

“I just needed fresh air… it’s a little – “

“Stuffy?” asks Harry, a knowing grin plastered across his face. He picks up the champagne, drains what’s left into his mouth and tosses the glass over his shoulder, sending it flying through the air and crashing to the street below.

Peter runs to the edge of the balcony in time to both see and hear glass shattering on the sidewalk. A man looks up, shouts something inaudible and Peter ducks down. Harry doesn’t bother hiding, but rather, keeps on looking over the edge, his grin every bit a taunt, a plea for trouble.

“You could’ve hit someone.”

Harry shrugs. A flash of annoyance runs through his face. “I was done with it.”

All advice about being relatable, about trying and pretending to get along with him, disappears from his mind. Peter shoots a quick glare his way, one he’s learned from Tony, but it doesn’t seem to faze Harry. He stares back with an eyebrow raised. Peter guesses his eyes aren’t sharp enough to cut, and they can only burn when he’s angry. When someone deserves it.

“You got to relax, Stark,” says Harry. He jumps off the ledge. “First rule of these ridiculously parties, never do it sober. You’ll be bored as hell. You need some refreshments, that’ll calm you down. I’ll go get us some.”

“Won’t someone notice you smuggling alcohol away?”

“Are you kidding? Nobody sees me. I’m practically invisible. Call it a super-power,” says Harry, backing out into the ballroom. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He fades away into the crowd.

Sounds like the best super-power to Peter. He can barely frown or fidget without someone noticing, and now, it’s worse. Now he’s Peter Stark. Now he’s whispered about. He climbs up on the ledge, not bothering to be careful about his suit, and settles in near where Harry had been sitting. He looks straight up. Nothing shines back down at him.

“Can’t see the stars from here. Light pollution,” says Harry. He’s back already and he’s holding two fresh glasses of champagne. “But who cares, anyway? They could all be dead up there, and we wouldn’t know the difference.”

Harry offers him one of the glasses, and Peter accepts without correcting him. Technically, the stars could be dead, but it’s unlikely. Stars live a lot longer than people. Instead he drinks the champagne, and oddly, he does become calm. Probably, it’s the placebo effect, but Peter doesn’t care. He stays with Harry on the balcony as he complains about all of life’s petty atrocities. Like being denied his favorite video game because Norman thinks it’s a waste of time. Like being forced to go to a school where everyone is a stranger.  Like wanting to do what he wants to do, instead of what he’s expected to do.

And Peter listens, except he’s not just listening as a friend, but also, an enemy.

* * *

Peter sits in the middle of his bed. He’s dressed to sleep, out of his costume and feeling much more comfortable, but nowhere near tired. His first night sleeping in Tony’s suite at the compound, he’d gotten out of bed and made it all the way to the lobby before Steve found him, and now, his first night in an NYC penthouse, his eyes are fixated on his balcony door. Tempted. Transfixed by the possibility of unlimited freedom.

A chance to work out his restlessness alone. Without eyes that see him.

He could scale down the building. He’s confident he could even use his web-shooters, and not be seen in the process. He could be back before anyone even realizes he’s gone, but then he frowns. Realizing all over again that Tony’s not stupid, and he’d have to be stupid to trust him enough to have not locked the balcony door via FRIDAY. He wants to test it. He wants to at least try to open the door, but doing so will probably alert Tony.

The last thing he wants is to steal anymore of his time.

He’s going to have to suffer through it, because he’s not at the compound where there’s a list of people ready and willing to stay with him if he asks them to. He breaks his attention away from the balcony door, painfully and slowly, but he manages it. He looks around his room. He finds something else to fixate on. His TV, or more specifically, the consoles.

Video games aren’t a waste of time if they’re research, and to be relatable he’s going to have to like the things Harry likes. He moves from his bed, walks across his large bedroom and switches everything on. Downloading Zombie Blaster Five turns out to be simple. There’s already a credit card loaded into his account, and Peter, surprising himself, has no trouble using it.

He collapses into the bean bag chair, the game starts, and he finds a new way to escape.


	11. shadow

  1. shadow



Tony’s standing outside of Peter’s closed bedroom door. Hesitating. Debating. He reaches his hand to the doorknob but draws it back. He should check on the kid. He knows he should. It’s the first night in a new place, after meeting the devil himself, and Tony saw the look on Peter’s face in the car ride home. He smelled the champagne on his breath too, but he figures if he’s going to have a teenager, he better learn to pick his battles. And that’s the problem causing his hesitation, his uncertainty. It’s the realizing. It’s the knowing there’s a teenage boy’s bedroom on the other side of the door. In his penthouse.

He can’t stand to be in there. He doesn’t want to see that panicky and distraught expression across Peter’s face, knowing he’s the one that put it there, with his actions and obsession and mission. Tony should have made the choice to back out of this for him. He should have taken him back to the compound, back to Steve and Bucky. Who are probably more capable. Who are probably right. 

But he can’t stand to do that, either. He’d never be able to part with him, as selfish as it sounds. Not now. Not after sitting on the couch with him and watching that ridiculous show he likes so much. Not after driving around in the middle of the night or having his company down in the workshop. But most of all, not after seeing him show up in his suite, his hand holding out Monroe’s watch, his eyes lost, or the jet ride back to the compound, hearing his screaming, or if Tony’s being really honest with himself, he quite possibly knew he wouldn’t be able to let him go the very moment they locked eyes, separated by glass, and was instantly haunted by Peter’s look of terror.

Peter never looks at Tony like that anymore. Like he’s an enemy to be hated and feared.

With an annoyed sigh, directed at his own thoughts, Tony moves past Peter’s bedroom and burst into his and Pepper’s. Used to him, his impatient suddenness, Pepper doesn’t even flinch from where she’s sitting on their bed. Her glasses replace her contacts, her back is against the headboard and her laptop sits on her legs. She’s typing away. Catching up on her emails, like she does most nights before bed.

“Alright, let’s have it,” says Tony. He’s standing at the foot of their bed, demanding her attention, but Pepper doesn’t look up from her computer.

“Have what?”

“The whole deal.”

The clicking of fingers against the keyboard stops, and Pepper looks at Tony, clueless and with one raised eyebrow. She waits on him to elaborate.

“The whole speech,” says Tony. He’s heard a kind version from Steve, and he’s heard the less than kind version from Bucky. He’s curious to hear what Pepper’s version sounds like. “Where you tell me how I’m an irresponsible, selfish asshole, who’s endangering the life of a child and you can add a part at the end about how I’m unfit to take care of a teenager, since I just realized now that he’s got a room there’s no getting rid of him once this is over.”

“I wasn’t going to say any of those things,” says Pepper. “And you don’t want to get rid of him.”

“No,” he admits. There’s no denying it now, at least not with Pepper. “But that doesn’t make me qualified.”

“Tony,” says Pepper. She shuts the laptop and looks at him the way she does when she’s about to explain something she thinks is very obvious. Only she can make a genius feel like an idiot. “He’s a teenage boy with super-powers and a near genius intelligence. I think just this one time you’ve the only one qualified. And we both know that boy was never in any real danger tonight. What was Norman going to do? Call in his scientist thugs at a moment’s notice and drag him away from Iron Man, Black Widow and Hawkeye?”

“Stranger things have happened,” says Tony, but his thoughts take a breath. They come in slower.

“You’re just freaking out a little bit,” says Pepper, putting the laptop away on the nightstand and getting up from the bed. “You saved a boy from a bad situation and now you’re trying to justify not wanting to let him go by making up this whole ridiculous mission – “

“-What? No. Back up. It’s not ridiculous, it’s necessary. To prove Norman’s a god-awful human being and put him where he belongs, where I can ridicule him for the rest of his miserable life.”

“Maybe.” She starts across the room, heading towards the bathroom and Tony follows her.

“No, no. Not maybe. That’s exactly what’s happening.”

“You’re so convincing when you’re calling to ask how to make spaghetti or calling Catherine for advice whenever Peter does something that worries you. Are those things also ‘necessary for the mission?’”

She shuts the bathroom door in his face, and Tony stands, stunned, blinking at the closed door for a few seconds, before retreating back into the center of the bedroom. He finds Steve and Bucky’s opinions more comfortable. It allows him to continue to deny the possibility he cares about someone so fragile, so easily breakable and taken away from him.

He’s going to have to add more security to that school. Maybe some cameras. Ones he can monitor.

Tony gets into bed, under the covers and waits for Pepper to reemerge from the bathroom. When she does, when she’s under the covers and the lights have been turned off, and Tony’s thoughts are growing slower and slower, the way everything becomes sluggish right before sleep takes over. He turns to her, she stares back. It’s just them. Alone together in the dark.

“You’re really okay with this?”

“I wasn’t thrilled I had to find out about it from Catherine,” says Pepper. “But I like Peter. He’s a nice boy. Unless you’re Happy.”

“Just his defense mechanism. He was like that with me when we first met.”

It gets quiet, and there’s just the sound of their breathing and the barely audible blowing of the cold air through the vents, saving them from sweating it out in the summer heat. This isn’t how Tony thought this conversation would go. He’d thought Pepper had been waiting until later, waiting until an inconvenient time to blow up at him about it, but now he feels stupid. That’s not Pepper’s style. Now there’s a confession pulling at his lips, the kind of confession that comes when met with grace that sees through pretending, sees through the lies.

“I’ve been looking into Peter’s dad,” says Tony, turning on his back. He looks straight at the ceiling. It’s so high, he can’t see it through the darkness. “I knew Monroe was dumber than a dog, that he wasn’t smart enough to execute the types of experiment he’s running on his own, but I figured it was Norman’s research. I didn’t expect there was someone else involved. Richard Parker’s research is the backbone of their entire objective.”

“That’s why they took Peter, then?” she asks.

Tony suspects as much. He doesn’t know for sure, but he’s put together a theory, one he likes to believe is truth. That Richard Parker was somehow partners with Norman. That Norman liked his research, liked his ideas, but didn’t like him. There was a scuffle, a disagreement over the right and wrong way to experiment, and Norman won the way he always wins. He killed him and his wife, made it look like an accident, and for good measure, killed Peter’s aunt and uncle, too.

And then because Norman is cruel, he stole his son. Turned him into a science experiment.

That’s the story Tony wants to believe, anyway. It’s the nicest one he can come up with.

“I sure as hell don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“When are you going to tell him?”

“Uh, never.”

Pepper sits up in bed, leans on her arm to better look at him. “Tony, I know you and the truth operate like strangers, but you can’t keep that from him. He’ll find out, and if he finds out from Harry or Norman, he’ll be crushed. Wouldn’t you rather him hear it from you?”

No. He would rather Peter not hear it at all, and also, he rather not be the one he hears it from. Those are the kind of messages where it’s the messenger who takes the blame, and he’s just got the kid to start acting sort of normal, just started to see some progress, telling him the truth might set him backwards. Especially after tonight. After meeting Norman face-to-face. But not telling him, having the possibility exist that Norman could tell him, is also terrifying.

That’s an injury Peter may never recover from. The truth can kill. It’s a dangerous weapon in the hands of the wrong person and Tony knows there’s more than one way to die.

He pulls Pepper closer to him, and she sets her head on his chest. “I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

* * *

As he walks the dark halls, he whistles the song his mother used to sing to him at bedtime. He can’t remember the words. Just the tune. It’s only part the matters. The fire in his hand lights the way, but it has more than one purpose. It’s also a warning to the other experiments. Stay away. Don’t wander around after curfew, or he will get them. He’ll toss them in the glass prison, as instructed by Monroe, and they won’t be allowed out for hours.

It’s time-out. They deserve it. They all do. All the ones who are still revolting.

He’d like to do a little more than that. Likes to hear the sound of them crying, if he’s the one causing it. It’s music. Soothing. Like the sound of his mom singing lullabies. But he can’t. Hurting them only hurts the progression of Monroe’s research, and they can’t have that. 

Time-outs weren’t necessary when it had been just Peter out of his bed and sneaking around, but now things are different. Peter is dead. His spirit isn’t. It leaves a shadow. It haunts the other experiments. Thrives in them. Causes them to behave in an undesirable, revolting fashion. So, Peter’s dead, but at the same time, more alive than ever before. One can’t fathom anything more infuriating than that.

It’s the duplicity that angers him. Duplicity makes him suspicious of deceit.

He walks into the training room and purposefully ignores the leak dripping in from the ceiling. A souvenir left over from when the Avengers ripped apart the ceiling. He pushes the memory away. He doesn’t like thinking about the night the Avengers choose Peter over him, even though One showed them just how talented, just how strong he can be, as he beat one of them unconscious. Picking Peter doesn’t make any sense, and it leads him to believe they must be stupid. 

One sets his eyes on Monroe. He’s sitting at the computers and mumbling in a language One does not understand while he glares intently at the monitors. New articles fill the screens, but from the distance, One can’t see what they entail. As he walks across the vast, empty space, he spares a look into the glass prison and smiles at David and Riley. David sits on the floor, teary eyed and pouting, but Riley unnerves him. She remains standing, and standing close to the glass, watching his every move. Watching with eyes that judge. A look Peter hit him with from time to time.

He looks away, and this time when he looks at Monroe’s monitors, he’s close enough to see what fills the screen. His eyes widen, but he suppresses the gasp before it leaves his mouth. 

“Is that – “

“-Peter,” says Monroe, cutting him off. Peter’s number is forgotten even by Monroe, because he fought for his name and won. “It appears Stark outsmarted our technology.”

One looks down at the black tracker enclosed around his wrist, and the sight of it stings his eyes. He’s trapped. His loyalty to Monroe is a survival instinct, and it ends the moment he’s free from the tracker, if he’s ever free from it. Stark hadn’t bothered with him. He starts to think maybe it’s because Peter never held any loyalty for Monroe, even when he’d been trapped. He shakes the thought away.

The idea Peter is braver than him is ridiculous, especially looking at his picture on the screen. He looks anything but brave, wearing grown-up clothes and surrounded by people wanting his picture.

“He’s claiming him as a son,” says Monroe.

“Why?”

“Hiding him in plain sight.”

“Sounds stupid to me,” says One. He flexes his hands. “Makes it easier for me to fetch him for you.”

“No,” says Monroe, voice suddenly sharp, bringing One’s excitement to a screeching halt. “No. Not yet. It’s of no consequence. We’ll wait and see what Stark is playing at, then if necessary, you can go and attempt to retrieve him. In the meantime, I want you to go through the computer files and delete everything you find on Peter Parker. Just in case. We don’t need upper management discovering where Tony Stark got his new pet.”

“I thought the Overseer doesn’t like to see our faces,” says One.

“He may get curious,” says Monroe. “No more questions. Do as your told.”

“Yes sir,” says One, watching as Monroe stands and leaves the room.

He doesn’t sit down until the man is gone and when he does take control of the computer, he doesn’t look through the files for Peter’s information. He looks at the photographs still on the computer screen. Peter Stark barely looks like Nine. They have the same face, sure, but One’s never seen the Peter he knew look so panicked. So uncertain. Weak and pathetic. Makes him wonder which version of him is the truth and which is the lie.

Strength hiding behind weakness, or weakness hiding behind strength?

A noise from behind the glass grabs at him, and he gets an idea, the idea to crush spirits, to make the shadow go away. He walks over to the glass cage.

“I’ve got some good news for you,” says One.

David looks up at him with his teary eyes. Riley stares. Neither of them speak while One looks them over, hating them because he knows their names. Peter made it a point that none of them forget, but he didn’t show up on time to save One’s name.

“As it turns out,” he says. “Peter isn’t dead.”

“You’re lying,” says Riley. An immediate denial.

“I’m not. He’s with Iron Man. Living it up at fancy parties, while you’re both here. I wonder why he hasn’t come to save you yet?”

“If he could be here, he would be,” says David. Strong despite the tears. Again, One sneers at the deceitful duplicity.

“I could let you out,” says One, enjoying the confusion run wild inside the glass, “And show you the pictures myself – “

“-You wouldn’t dare,” says Riley. Interrupting him. Sending a flare of anger burning through his hands. “You don’t have the spine to do anything Monroe hasn’t ordered. You’re all yes sir and no sir and let me take – " 

“Shut up!”

“Why? You don’t scare me. You’re just a dog on a leash, and you’re not allowed to harm me or David or anyone else, so you won’t. Pathetic and predictable.”

One storms away before his hands ignite and he’s sending useless fire at the glass. He throws himself in the computer chair, sending it sliding with the extra force used, and gets started on the task Monroe set out for him. He pauses at the file center’s search bar, then remembers Peter’s last name and types it in. When he presses enter, two names appear. Peter Parker.

Richard Parker.

It’s a spark. It’s a faint memory. Something too far away for him to grab and hold down. Just like his name. It’s something from before Peter. From before there were other experiments besides just him.

He clicks on the name. The one that isn’t Peter’s. He informs himself. Reminds himself about Richard Parker, and just to prove Riley wrong, he doesn’t delete any of Peter’s files. Let the Overseer see his face. It’s not One’s problem.

* * *

Tony’s outside of Peter’s door again, but this time, he’s not hesitating. He opens it, gently, not wanting to scare him awake, the way he’s waken him up so many times before. His room is still dark. The curtains are drawn, covering the full windows, covering the balcony and the sliding door that leads out to it. Strange. Peter’s never blocked out the sun before. He trails across the room, opens the curtains, doing for Peter what Pepper does for him, and lets the soft, morning light spill into the room.

Despite the sudden light, Peter doesn’t move. He’s laying in the middle of his bed, twisted inside the red comforter and his face smashed down in the pillow. It can’t be comfortable, and Tony grimaces, imagining how he’d ache if he fell asleep that way. To be young.

He moves over to the boy’s bed, quiet and slow, and dreading the conversation they’re about to have. It’ll be dramatic. It’ll be damaging, and it might cause Peter to look at Tony the way he hasn’t looked at him in a very long time. Like an enemy. He’s about to break a promise he made to himself. He’s about to shatter Peter’s perception of his past.

He sits down on the bed, the familiarity of this turning into comfortability despite the dread and shakes Peter’s shoulder.

“No, not yet,” says Peter, though it’s barely audible. He doesn’t bother moving his head away from the pillow, and his words come out muffled.

“It’s way past time for you to be awake,” says Tony. He waits. Peter doesn’t move. “Nat and Clint are bringing over donuts.”

Peter lifts his head, turns and looks at Tony, stray pieces of brown hair falling into his eyes. “Donuts? From where?”

“Does it matter?”

Peter rolls over on his back, untangles rather ungracefully from the covers, leaving Tony to watch unimpressed as he fights to sit up. He manages it, eventually, and sits cross-legged, staring at Tony curiously. Then his face changes. It drops, and panic fills his eyes, the same panic Tony wanted to avoid last night. He’s almost in disbelief. He’s never seen someone go from waking up peacefully to panicked and afraid so quickly.

“W-what’s wrong? Why does your face look like that? Is it Norman…? Oh my god, he recognized me… Do I… I have to go back to the compound, don’t I?”

“No,” says Tony. He studies him in an attempt to figure out why being sent back to the compound is the worst fate Peter’s mind can come up with. He’s safest there, and before they left, Peter began enjoying his life there. “We went over that last night. He didn’t recognize you.”

“Oh,” says Peter. He gets a good breath in, but he’s still uneasy. “Why are you acting weird? Normally when you wake me up you rip my blanket away or yell or have FRIDAY make that annoying buzzing – “

“-You really don’t have to list them all.”

Peter’s eyes shift to the balcony and they go wide.

“Does that door lock at night?”

“…Yes,” says Tony, slow, and looking back and forth between Peter and the balcony. There’s a piece to this puzzle that he’s missing. “What’s going on?”

Peter doesn’t answer him. He continues to frown at the balcony. 

“FRIDAY, turn on the lights, shut the curtains,” says Tony. The curtains slide shut, and the lights flicker on. Peter’s attention snaps away from whatever threat the balcony held and back to Tony. “Do you want to tell me why all of the sudden you’re terrified of the balcony?”

“No, not really. And I’m not terrified.”

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“Not a nightmare,” says Peter, too defensive to be truthful. “Just… just a weird dream. I guess when I looked over there I remembered it.”

Tony continues staring at him. For someone who isn’t terrified, he’s looking very fourteen and very afraid. His eyes are watery, from the lack of sleep Tony decides, and his voice is a whiny panicked instead of a normal one. Both are sleep related. Staying up until four in the morning playing video games will do that to a person. It’s such a normal thing for a teenage boy to do, Tony didn’t think anything was wrong when FRIDAY gave him the report. Now he’s wondering if that was a mistake.

But also, he’s relived. This is a proper excuse to continue hiding the truth. His need to protect, maybe overprotect, gets to override the need to be honest. At least for a little while longer.

He’ll tell Peter on a day when he doesn’t look like he’s about to have a break down. Maybe.

“I was back in the t – the room where we met,” says Peter, looking down, playing with bits of fabric from his comforter. “But I was trapped behind the glass and I couldn’t get out, and there were kids screaming but I couldn’t save them. Then there was fire everywhere, and I woke up… maybe it’s like my spidey senses, maybe it’s trying to warn me it’s going to happen.”

“Has that ever happened before?”

Peter shakes his head.

“I don’t think that’s what this is,” says Tony. “You had a rough night last night. You’re tired, and you don’t like feeling trapped, so you fell asleep looking at that balcony door and your mind decided to torture you. Just a dream. Not even a Spiderling can predict the future.” 

Peter doesn’t look convinced, but Tony moves on.

“You’ll want to get ready and dressed if you don’t want Clint to eat all the good ones,” says Tony, standing up and beginning to walk out of Peter’s room. He stops before he reaches the door. He can’t leave things like that. “And kid, I’m gonna turn that whole dump into dust once we get those kids out, and you’ll never have to step another foot in there again, alright?”

He offers him a tired smile and nods his head, allowing Tony to leave his room with a clear conscience. Almost. He still carries the truth with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Thanks for reading! I love reading all your comments, you guys are awesome! I'm gonna try and get the next chapter posted a bit quicker, I'm thinking Friday, Saturday at the latest unless something dramatic happens. See ya then!


	12. neverland

  1. neverland



The restlessness goes away. It’s followed by nightmares.

Always different, but always the same. He’s trapped behind the glass, in the small prison, with no way of getting out, but it doesn’t always end with fire. Sometimes Peter’s trying to punch his way out, bruising his knuckles until they bleed. Sometimes he’s screaming for help while the cage slowly fills with water, screaming until he can’t anymore, until he’s under it and drowning. He prefers those to the empty ones. The nights he sits in the box with just him and silence, not attempting to bust out, not attempting to fight. It’s so foreign. So apart from him. Peter always fights, at least when he’s awake.

Tony is a recurring character. He stands on the outside, staring and blinking and silent, but those occasions are rare. More often when he visits the nightmares, he’s trying to rescue him. He tries everything he can. His plots are intricate like the weapons he builds, but the end results are never any different. It ends with both of them clawing at the glass uselessly, while a giant timer with neon lights ticks away somewhere off in the distance, pinned up in the ceiling like a scoreboard.

The glass never breaks, and the timer always hits zero. 

At least when he had been plagued by the restlessness, he didn’t want to sleep. His legs and mind didn’t want to turn off, so they didn’t, but now he desperately wants to close his eyes and rest. Instead he closes his eyes and the horror show begins. He supposes he should be thankful his mind likes to switch things up occasionally. He’s never bored by them.

Despite being unable to save him in the nightmares, Tony’s always waiting for him on the other side. Shaking him back into reality by his shoulders while he sweats and screams and thrashes in his sleep. It’s become their new routine. Tony wakes him up, waits for him to gather his bearings, then they move to the TV armed with the comforter from Peter’s bed and a pillow. Peter takes the couch. One night of struggling on the bean bag chair is all it takes to convince Tony to have a recliner put in Peter’s room, and that’s where he sits, doing whatever work billionaire avengers do in the middle of the night while they wait for their traumatized wards to fall asleep watching Netflix. He stays as long as it takes, and sometimes he’s still asleep in the recliner when morning comes. Other times, just his laptop remains in his place.

It’s smothering. Peter’s fourteen, not four, but he’s not bothered enough to tell the man he doesn’t need him. That he’s had nightmares before him and can handle them just fine on his own. Besides, even if he does tell him, he doubts Tony will listen. They may not be at the compound anymore, but it’s still a rule. If it’s night, and Peter’s not asleep, he can’t be alone. So, Tony’s there when Peter wakes up, every time, and sees him when he’s scared and not awake enough to pretend to be anything else. And that’s the part Peter hates the most. Letting Tony Stark see him afraid, because Iron Man is never afraid, or at least he never acts like it.

The night before his freshman orientation at Midtown, Peter lays on his couch, covered up to his head with the blanket, but his attention isn’t fixed on the TV. He stares at Tony. A soft glow from the television lights the space surrounding them, and a smaller light radiating from Tony’s laptop screen makes his facial features more pronounced. It doesn’t take the man long to notice Peter’s watching him instead of the TV. He looks past his computer screen to meet his eyes.

“You don’t always have to act like the tough guy,” says Tony. Words don’t need to pass between them for Tony to guess, and guess correctly, the thoughts going through Peter’s mind. For better, or for worse. “We all get them.”

“The Avengers?” asks Peter, then when Tony nods in the affirmative, he asks another. “Even you?”

“Especially me.”

Peter looks back at the TV. Two men are chasing each other around a beach with swords, but he’s not sure who’s supposed to be the good guy and who’s supposed to be the bad guy. Without context, it’s impossible to tell the opposing teams apart. He never figures it out. His eyelids become too heavy, and not even the threat of revisiting the glass prison can prevent him from falling asleep.

Morning comes too early, and when he walks into the kitchen, dressed and ready for the day, Tony and Happy are already waiting for him. Tony presses a silver tumbler into his hands. Peter slides open the top, releasing the unmistakable smell of freshly roasted coffee and letting it fill the room, then frowning. Tony knows better.

“Coffee won’t work on me.”

“That coffee will,” says Tony. “Brucey’s specialty. Made it in the lab for Steve and Bucky. It’d probably give a normal person a heart attack.”

Curious, Peter takes a sip, and it’s surprisingly good for something concocted in a lab, so he keeps drinking it as Tony pushes a breakfast bar on him and they all head across the room and into the elevator. Happy’s eyes appraise him as they descend down to the lobby

“Coffee won’t fix the dark circles, boss,” he says.

“Well, we do the best we can,” says Tony. He turns to Peter, frown setting in as he gets a closer look. “Don’t you think you could’ve at least ran a comb through your hair?” 

He makes a move to smooth down Peter’s wild, brown curls, but the door to the elevator opens and he bolts out from it, eventually turning and walking backwards into the lobby, with the silver tumbler filled with the magic coffee and his breakfast bar occupying both his hands, leaving the two grown men fussing over his appearance behind. His life has slipped further into the normal category, where the adults in his life care about things like eating good meals and hair and dressing properly. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he doesn’t mind it.

He only acts like he’s bothered, the same way he’d like to pretend the nightmares don’t bother him, and the connection causes him to push away the thought that it’s more than futility keeping him from asking Tony to leave him alone after nightmares.

“What? Am I supposed to be pretending you’re my mom now, too?”

Happy laughs. “You’re right. He is growing on me.”

“Wanna say that a little bit louder, Einstein?” asks Tony, emerging into the lobby, and looking around to insure no one is around to have heard him. He finds the lobby empty, then turns to Happy. “And you’re fired.”

Tony does, eventually, get his way about Peter’s hair when they’re in the backseat of the car and he’s handed a comb. He accepts it with a sigh, combs his stupid hair, eats the gross breakfast bar meant to satisfy his metabolism and finishes off the coffee, letting the tumbler fall to the floor by his feet. A look from Tony convinces him to pick it back up and place it in the cupholder. He looks at the empty container, and he does feel more awake. On the jittery side, but more functional at least.

He'll text Bruce and thank him later. That, and ask him to send some more. Peter doesn’t expect the nightmares to give him a break any time soon.

Happy pulls the car to the side of the road outside of Midtown. There’s already students sprawling about the property, some walking towards the school’s entrance and some hanging back, clumping into groups and chatting. They all look so completely normal, and Peter gets crushed under a wave of jealousy. Their coffee is from Starbucks, not manufactured in a lab, and he’s willing to bet they aren’t tortured by nightmares during the night.

Peter’s about to open the door and tell them goodbye when Tony stops him.

“Let’s go over the story one more time.”

Peter groans and throws his head against the headrest. Nothing drills in the point his situation isn’t normal more than Tony ordering him to recite his cover story. He’s tried of the story. He’s tired of repeating it back to Tony and Nat, and he’s tired of the two of them reciting it back to him as if they’re trying to brainwash him into believing it’s true. 

Tony studies him. That’s never a good sign.

“Maybe you should skip today,” he suggests. “Orientation isn’t required, and you could use some more sleep.”

“Like I’m going back to sleep after drinking all that coffee,” says Peter. His eyes lock with Tony’s, his head still pressed up against the black seat. He tries another tactic. “If I stay home with you, you’ll just have to listen to me whine all day.”

Tony narrows his eyes at him.

“I’ll be annoying.”

“I’ll lock you in your room.”

Peter grins. “You’d never do that.”

“Yeah, yeah you’re just lucky I’m nice,” says Tony. He fishes for something in the pocket of his suit jacket, and pulls out a small, black box. He opens it to reveal a silver smart watch. “Hold out your hand.”

“How’s this any different – “

“This one won’t try to kill you,” says Tony. Softer, quieter, than usual. “And you can take it off whenever you want, you’d just be stupid do it.”

Peter stretches out his right arm, watching as the same hands that pried the Oscorp tracker off his bloody wrist clasps on a brand new one. It’s exclusive Stark Industries watch, and Peter’s sure, it’s made just for him.

“It’s tracking me?” He holds his wrist in front of his face, examining it and pushing a few of the buttons. He brings it down and begins to scroll through its menu with his thumb.

“It’s keeping you safe,” says Tony, rephrasing. “It’ll let me know if you’re in trouble.”

Peter nods. He understands, but it doesn’t mean he likes it. He tries the door again, but Happy’s child safety lock is still enabled.

“Still waiting for you to explain your backstory.”

Peter gives him an annoyed huff but launches into the story of his fake mother’s death, a few odd details about their home in the mid-west, how he spent a few months in child services before they contacted Tony, how he resents Tony for forcing Stark Industries responsibilities too soon. That last part, Tony always explains, is the most important. It’ll make him relatable. Harry feels the same way about his father, or at least that’s what Tony guesses.

And he’s right, if Peter’s conversation with Harry on the balcony at the gala held any sort of truth.

Once Tony is satisfied Peter has a thorough understanding of who he’s pretending to be, the door comes unlocked and he’s allowed to leave the car. He doesn’t even make it off the road and onto the sidewalk before Tony’s window comes down.

“Happy will be out here at 11:30 sharp,” he tells him. “Try not keep him waiting, alright? You might give him an aneurysm.”

Peter smiles and nods, then watches the car pull away. Once it’s out of sight, and he’s free of the near constant adult supervision he’s had since being pulled out of New Life, he turns towards the school, pauses for a moment, before walking towards the entrance.

Other students are already staring. They’re already whispering, and he’s pretty sure a few have taken pictures of him on their phones. He walks past them and into the school without giving them so much as a glance. It doesn’t bother him. Not anymore. His nerves from the gala have disappeared, and anyway, these kids have nothing on meeting Norman Osborn. If he can survive that, he can walk into a school.

And he’s been practicing. Tony’s been making a point to take him out more during the day, and he’s been to dinner with Tony and Pepper a few times since. 

The staring and the whispering become more pronounced once he’s inside the school, but he moves quickly, looking all around for Harry Osborn, as he walks to the auditorium. He’s starting to believe Harry really does have the power of invisibility, but when he enters the auditorium, he finds Harry, sitting in the second to last row, face in his cellphone. 

Peter approaches, and Harry looks up.

“You too?”

“Yeah,” says Peter. He looks around the auditorium, pretends to debate, before finally saying, “Can I sit with you?”

“Sure,” says Harry, lazily beckoning to the chair next to him. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Zombie Blaster Five.” The lie is easy and ready as Peter sits in the red, uncomfortable theater chair and gets settled. “Stayed up all night, but I still can’t get past level nine.”

The last part is true, just misplaced in time. Lies are more believable with reality mixed into them. Another great piece of advice from Nat that makes him worry how many times he’s been fed lies and didn’t catch onto it. 

“That’s a tough one. The key’s in the doctor’s medicine cabinet.”

Peter frowns, trying to reassemble the level in his mind and replay it out, wondering how he missed that, then shakes it off. Not important. Focus on the mission. “Wait – I thought your dad won’t let you play.”

Harry shrugs. “YouTube.”

It’s a depressing thought, and the scene plays out in his mind. Harry Osborn alone in a room that probably looks a lot like Peter’s does now, watching YouTubers play games and living vicariously through them.

And so, when Peter offers to let Harry come over and play on his game system, it isn’t completely because he’s trying to win his trust. Part of it is sincere, or at least, it makes him feel better to believe that.

Harry directs a death glare to someone sitting in the row behind them, but raises his eyebrows, looking incredulous at Peter’s offer. “Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do. Go over to Iron Man’s penthouse and play video games." 

“He doesn’t, like, walk around in the Iron Man suit. At home he’s just – “

“-Tony Stark?”

“I see your point,” says Peter. He doesn’t actually, but the thought crosses his mind he may see Tony like the rest of the world if their first meeting hadn’t been a life or death situation, if it hadn’t ended in his rescue. 

“Hey, loser!” 

Peter has to adjust his body to properly crane his head and look towards the back row. A girl with curly black hair pulled up in a messy ponytail is staring at him. He can’t read her face, and he’s a little shocked. She’s the first student besides Harry to speak to him directly since entering the school. Since being called Stark.

“Tin man made you change your last name, huh?” she asks, leaning up from the chair and titling her head.

“W-what?”

“I’ve been sitting back here saying Stark for the last five minutes and I get nothing from you.”

“Cause he’s ignoring you on purpose, right, Peter?” asks Harry, but he doesn’t give him the chance to respond for himself. Harry looks at the girl, eyes narrowing, channeling some of Norman’s disgust. “We’re in the middle of a conversation.”

“So he ignores being called Stark and responds to loser?” 

“Um – “

“Mind your own business.”

“He did,” says Peter, fast and loud. It’s a mistake. He should let Harry be correct, both for his safety and his mission of befriending the other boy, but he doesn’t want to dismiss the girl. It’s nice to have someone talk to have in a normal way, without trying to snap his photo or being afraid.

She blinks at him. No doubt surprised she got an answer. “What was it before?”

“Parker,” he answers, automatically.

“Too bad. You lost the alliteration.”

Peter smiles at her before turning back around.

“Don’t listen to her,” says Harry. “That name is currency. Shame it has to be an Avenger’s name – “

“Why is that bad?”

“The Avengers are bad people,” says Harry, as if it’s obvious. “Murders and city destroyers, all of them.”

“Dude, they’re literal super heroes.”

“Depends on who you ask, I guess,” he says, with another shrug, turning his attention to the stage as someone stands behind a podium, tapping on the mic and bringing the chattering of the auditorium to a slow, steady, stop.

The man who introduces himself as Principal Morita begins talking, and Peter turns off his brain, fixing his attention to his new smart watch. He’d been horrified at the idea of wearing a tracker, again, but this tracker isn’t really a tracker. It fits loosely. It has a lot of other cool features built in, and Peter uses his time stuck in assembly wisely, getting familiar with them. He’s coming around to Tony’s claim that life has choices at every turn.

Keep the watch on, take it off. He thinks this choice is pretty simple. He’s not stupid, after all.

* * *

Peter’s eyes snap open. The glass prison is engulfing him. 

It hasn’t grown since last time he’s visited in his nightmares, but he’s shrunk. He’s tiny, with no muscles or extra senses. He’s five years old again, and impossibly aware of it. This is a time from before.

This is starlight, still muddled from distance traveled, but less so. It feels incredibly close.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, close to the glass that faces the rest of the training room, dragging a blue and red toy car across the concrete floor. Playing pretend. It’s on a race track, going fast, fast, then faster. The car’s in first place. It’s about to win the gold medal, when suddenly, it blows up. Peter makes a sound he thinks resembles an explosion and throws the car into the air. It never falls back down, but he forgets about it. The doors to the training room come open with a screech.

He stares apprehensively at first, but he breaks into a smile when he sees it’s familiar face approaching. Richard Parker is dressed in the clothes he wears when he teaches at the high school. A sweater vest, worn and ragged, and a pair of khakis. He comes to stop before he reaches the glass, stands eerily still and watches his son through his wide-frame glasses. One of the lenses is shattered.

“Dad!” Peter stands up and puts both hands on the glass. “Can we go home now?”

Richard puts both hands in his pockets and continues to stare at Peter. His expression is almost sad, but it’s just a caricature of the emotion.  Like someone wearing a mask that’s fixed and unmoving. Eyes give it all way, and Richard’s are blank. There’s nothing behind them. Empty.

Peter wavers a bit under the stare, and takes his hands away from the glass, frowning at the handprints he leaves behind. “Dad. I miss you… can you l-let me out? Then we can be together.”

“I’m sorry, son,” he says. “I can’t do that. This is for your own good.”

“I want to go home!” says Peter, anger igniting and releasing in the same moment. His tiny hands ball into fists and pound the glass. “Mom’s waiting for us. We’re gonna miss dinner! She’ll be mad at you!”

Richard is standing straight with perfect posture, unchanging and not effected.

Peter’s trembles, anger already spent, and his voice becomes quiet, almost pleading, “We’re going to miss our favorite show, the one with the funny scientist – “

“TV’s a waste of time,” says Richard, harsh and unforgiving, and it causes Peter to move back into anger.

“Let me out of here!”

He hits the glass again, somehow knowing his fists should be bigger and stronger, but still, nothing happens. His dad turns from the spot and walks away, while Peter watches his back get smaller until he’s on the other side of the room. A metal stretcher pops into existence in front of him, and there’s a small boy strapped down on top of it. A woman also appears. She’s holding the boy’s hand, and she’s humming a lullaby under her breath.

Despite the distance, Peter can hear it clearly, and it’s not like the songs his mom sings to him before bed. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stick up. 

Richard sticks his hand up into the air and a syringe materializes. He brings down his hand fast and hard, stabs the boy in the arm without warning, and twists. The boy lets out a yelp, but his cries are silenced by the woman, until he stops.

“Dad… what are you doing?" 

Peter strains his eyes to see, but it’s getting harder and harder as smoke fills the prison and stings his eyes. The last image he manages to see if his father the biology teacher handing the woman a wad of cash and her retreating out the door, leaving the boy behind to wail without the comfort of the creepy lullaby. He waves his arms desperately, trying to clear the smoke, trying to see clearly the kind of man his father had been, but he cannot.

He's too far away.

And then suddenly, he’s even further away. He’s back in his bedroom, arms still flailing, and fighting two hands on his shoulders. Coming to his senses, sleep wearing off, he stops his struggle and lets Tony lift him into a sitting position back against the headboard. He can’t look at Tony in the eyes, so instead he shifts his gaze to the floor where his blanket has been thrown, while he catches up on his breaths.

“A bad one?” asks Tony.

“Y-yeah,” says Peter, still looking at the floor, enjoying feeling cold air on his skin. They’re all bad, but he knows what he means. “My dad was there. He wouldn’t help me.”

Peter manages to lift his face to finally look at Tony. Something familiar is playing out on his expressions. Pity. His grip on Peter’s shoulders become tighter, and there’s a second Peter thinks the man might pull him in for a hug. He breaks eye contact. This time he looks down at his wrinkled sheets. After being traumatized by his nightmare dad, he’s not sure he can handle accepting a hug from the man who only pretends to be one. Tony must sense the hesitation, because he lets go.

They’re not there yet.

Tony gathers his comforter from the floor and grabs a stray pillow from nearby, carrying them over to the couch for him while he trails behind. They reach the couch, Tony hands him his pillow, Peter arranges it and lays down. The comforter comes falling over him before Tony takes his place in the recliner, without his laptop, or even a tablet. He picks a movie, and once again, their space becomes filled with artificial light from the TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Thanks for reading, and you guys in the comments are the best! Gonna try to have the next one posted it the end of the week.


	13. faith and trust and dust

  1. faith and trust and dust 



Peter sits at a desk in the very back of the classroom, trying to keep his leg from bouncing up and down from all the coffee Tony forced on him earlier that morning. The nightmares still come for him, they still interrupt his sleep, and now that school has officially begun, he expects the missing sleep to bother him more. Caffeine can’t fix everything. No matter how badly he wishes it does.

There’s a class syllabus in front of him, and his teacher, Mr. Miller, stands in front a white board, going over it in excruciating detail. Harry sits in the desk next to him, and he’s not even pretending to pay attention to the syllabus notes. He has a notebook flipped open, doodling in it with some marker pens while leaning back in his chair. Michelle Jones sits in front of him. She puts him even more on edge more than the caffeine overload. 

Earlier in the hall, she had shouted at him, called him Parker again, and his chest turned icy. He’s not sure he wants to be associated with the man from his nightmares.

Flash, an obnoxious boy who introduced himself to Peter while he tried to figure out how his locker opened, hits a boy a few desks up with a small, rolled up piece of paper. It gets stuck in his hair, and Flash grins, looks to Peter, as though they are accomplices. He doesn’t return the boy’s smile. Instead, he stares at him blankly, and Flash’s grin falters.

Seconds later, the door to the classroom opens and a student with a TA’s badge slung around their neck enters, hands Miller a small, green slip of paper and swiftly leaves.

“Stark,” says Miller, reading the paper. “Collect your things. How you’ve managed to get sent to the office before the second bell of the year is beyond me…”

It’s beyond Peter, too. He hasn’t done anything wrong, that he knows of, and it isn’t until after he shoves everything in his bookbag and takes the slip of paper from Mr. Miller that he realizes he isn’t really in trouble. It’s a summons to the guidance office. He exits the classroom and slips through the halls, until he arrives outside of Nat’s office.

He’s barely in the door before she assaults him with a question.

“Why did I hear a girl call you Parker this morning?” 

Peter tilts his head, hand still hovering on the doorknob, trying his best to convey confusion. “Are you sure she was talking to me?”

Nat waits, silently, until he gives a sigh, caving, like he always does. He shuts the door behind him and takes a seat in the chair across from her desk.

“She made a lucky guess,” he says. “So, I sort of… just told her?”

“ _Peter.”_

“I didn’t think she would keep harassing me with it,” he tells her.

He looks around the small office from the chair he occupies. Nat’s fake diploma hangs on the wall near a shelf filled with psychology books. On the desk, there’s picture frames. They aren’t facing Peter, so he doesn’t know for sure, but he’s willing to bet they contain photos of her with her fake kids. Peter wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, wouldn’t be able to figure out she’s really an avenger, if he didn’t already know.

She definitely wouldn’t have outright told someone.

“Didn’t think is an understatement,” she says. “I know Tony has had this conversation with you, the danger you’re in if your identity is discovered.” 

Peter twists the green slip of paper in his hands. He makes tiny rips in it. “Just half way.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can tell when people are lying to me,” says Peter. He leans forward and places the now mangled green slip on the desk. “How am I supposed to know how dangerous it is if I’m left in the dark?”

Nat gives him a funny look and stays completely still in her chair. “So, you did think, and you gave away your identity to spite Tony because you think he’s keeping a secret from you.”

Peter leans back. He shrugs. “That’s not the whole reason.” 

“Fix it,” says Nat, her voice final. “Get her to stop calling you that.”

He nods and gets to his feet. When his hand closes around the doorknob a second time, Nat stops him.

“If Tony is keeping something from you,” she says. “I’m sure he has his reasons, and I’m sure he at least thinks they are good ones. 

He considers it, for a moment, before telling her goodbye and returning to class.

This is a side quest he’s more than happy to complete. Distancing himself from the Parker name feels less like a betrayal and more like he’s putting down something heavy, now that he’s beginning to question his family’s morality. Although he’s not sure replacing it with Stark is any better, and it makes him wonder, which name weighs the most, Parker or Stark?

As the day goes on, it isn’t hard to figure out. 

He gets smiles in the hallways, nods from upperclassmen important enough to have and wear letterman jackets on the first day of school, and occasionally, people trying to snap his photo while he stands in the hallway, confused, trying to figure out where his next class is located. Harry explains it’s for their Instagram account. His hashtag provokes a lot of likes, since the news is still fresh, and the rest of the world wants a better look at the new Stark. His picture must be everywhere by now. He tries not to think about it.

And Flash shows off for him, trying to win his friendship by being loud and by abusing others, and Peter isn’t sure how much longer this can go on before he either gets the hint or Peter steps in and puts a stop to the bullying. When he watches him in the hallway, calling after others with insulting nicknames, Peter grips the strap to his bookbag tighter and tells himself over and over and over again not to get involved. Getting involved makes things worst. Getting involved puts him in a brighter spotlight, if that’s even possible.

Getting involved, at worst, gets people killed.

Despite the looks and the recognition and the showing off, the only people brave enough to speak to him directly are Flash, Harry and Michelle. Nobody speaks to Harry, except Peter. At first, he blames it on Harry’s power of invisibility, but now he realizes it’s for entirely different reasons.

Osborns aren’t loved and worshipped the way Starks are, and Harry has a much different experience when he walks through the halls. There’s no warm smiles, no head nods, no showing off, not for him. He is coldly and awkwardly ignored. His last name is one associated with villainy, with cruel scientific practices, and the kind of kids who go to Midtown aren’t the sort to who ignore the news.

It isn’t lost on Peter that if his father were alive, he might be like Harry, or at least, a version of Harry who isn’t rich. Ignored instead of smiled at. Targeted by the Avengers instead of rescued by them. If his nightmares are true, if he can trust his dreams, which logically he admits is a very stupid thing to do, then he has to acknowledge he and Harry have more in common than he thought. Being called Parker, in another world, might be the same as being called Osborn.

The thought is too much for him to handle, and he makes his conclusion. Peter allows the costume to swallow him whole. It’s not a suit this time, but it’s Peter Stark. It’s a heavy name, but at least it isn’t made from the same components that fuel his nightmares.

* * *

There’s police sirens in the distance, and there’s a breeze with a bite to it. A chill. One of fall’s first warning signs, whispering it’s just around the corner, but still, not quite here. Tony looks around. The street he’s on is oddly abandoned. It’s midday, and yet, there aren’t any signs of life, save him standing in the middle of the road and Happy still behind the wheel in the car. 

He hits the driver’s side window a couple of times, letting Happy know he’ll be right back, and walks around the car and onto the sidewalk, staring up at the stone building in front of him. Bike racks and benches line the concrete path leading to the entrance, and it might have been nice-looking if the lawn were maintained, or if there wasn’t trash thrown all about. Fast food drink cups, wrappers from candy bars and chips, wads of scrap pieces of paper, all being tossed around with the breeze.

High school. Tony’s glad he doesn’t have to deal much with high schools. Scratch that. He guesses he will now that he has a high schooler. A lot can change in just a few months. It’s hard to keep up. 

He puts his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket, and he walks up the garbage riddled concrete path. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He doesn’t know what he expects to find out. It’s been four years since Richard Parker has taught at this school, and while he’s sure there are people in this school who knew him, worked with him, he’s not sure that it matters. It isn’t as if the man would announce in the break room his plans to create dual species hybrids. But still. He’s drawn to this place the same way he’d been drawn to New Life.

Tony opens the door and steps inside the school. It’s also littered with scrap pieces of notebook paper and stray pencils and a few parts of a broken pen. The corridor is long, lined with lockers on each side, and completely empty. A ghost town. Just like the street outside. If Tony hadn’t already called ahead, he wouldn’t think the school is still open.

“Umm, can I help you?”

The question is rude, and annoyed, and it comes from a woman in her twenties sitting at the front desk off to the left. She’s the barrier between the hallway Tony stands in and the administrative offices behind her. Once Tony turns around, and she gets a good look at who’s standing in the front entrance, her eyes get wide and her voice changes.

“Mr. Stark?” she asks. “What… are you doing here?”

“I have an appointment scheduled with Principal Hawkins,” he tells her.

She smiles, nods and fumbles around with the office phone until she’s finally able to get a grip on it and alert Hawkins of his arrival. Principal Hawkins appears from the offices and they exchange pleasantries, asks if he wants a coffee, he doesn’t and so he follows her back to a door with a lop-sided, tacky nameplate with her name inscribed into it.

Her office is cluttered. It reminds him of his suite at the compound back when he’d been stuck in his Osborn obsession. Back before Peter stepped into it and forced him out, giving him something different to be concerned with. There’s stacks on papers on her desk and too many books on crowded shelves. He sits in the chair across from her desk, although he really rather not, and watches as she moves to sit behind her desk.

“I have to say,” she says. “I’m surprised you’re asking about Richard Parker, you know. It’s been such a long time since he’s been gone… still makes me sad thinking about it.”

“You knew him well, then?”

“Very well,” she says. “He was a great friend, a good colleague…” She trails off, then something in her face changes. It’s not sadness. It’s intention. Tony prepares himself for a planned statement. “A good father, too. Always bringing little Peter along with him to classes. I’m sure you know all about that, too, with all your research. That Richard’s son is still missing. I keep thinking I’ll wake up one day with news he’s been found.”

Tony nods with understanding, but inside, keeps his guard up. He knows there’s a punch coming.

“Congratulations on finding your boy, by the way,” she says, direct and unblinking. It’s hard to miss the accusation. “He looks familiar.” 

“Thanks,” says Tony. “You know I get that all the time. He looks so much like the Stark side of the family.” Dark brown, unconvinced eyes stare back at him. He tries another tactic. Something vague and deniable. “Wherever Peter Parker is, I’m sure he’s safe, and there’s a good reason he’s staying hidden.”

It’s enough. She takes a shaky breath and her suspicion is replaced by a warm smile, bringing Tony to the realization that she hadn’t been accusing him of kidnapping, but rather hoping her assumption was true, hoping the child of one of her old friends was still alive and safe.

“Whatever you can tell me about Richard,” says Tony, “Would really help me out.”

Tony’s wrong. Nothing Principal Hawkins tells him is helpful in anyway. Her stories revolve around Richard bringing Peter into school when he was too young to be in his own school. Stories about Richard bringing donuts to feed the entire staff because his wife wouldn’t let him have them at home. She, apparently, had been a Nazi about food, and everything had to be homemade, so Tony suffers through more stories about Richard sneaking off to various, greasy fast food places, as if it’s the funniest quirk a person can have.

Tony’s guessing she’s wrong about knowing Parker well. Maybe only a version of him. Maybe only the part he wanted others to see. The family man. 

“What do you know about Parker’s extracurriculars?” he manages to interject. He can’t handle listening to another pointless story.

“Excuse me?” 

“His other job,” says Tony. “He worked in a lab after the school day.”

“No,” she says, frowning. “He didn’t have any other job. That would kill him. He’d miss his family too much.”

This is the point Tony realizes his trip isn’t going to amount to anything. He stands up, straightens himself out and begins to dismiss himself, making up a story about something urgent needing his attention.

“Wait,” she says, before he can get far. She pulls a folder from her drawer and hands it to him. “I don’t know why I’ve kept these, but maybe your son will find them interesting. And I hope when it’s safe for Peter Parker, he’ll come by and visit. It would be nice to see him again.”

“Who knows? Maybe he will,” says Tony, then leaves the Principal alone in her office.  

He waits until he’s back in his car and Happy’s pulling away from the school before he opens the folder. It’s filled with pictures of the Parker family. Peter smiling at the camera, sitting at a desk too big for him, a crayon in his hand and a drawing on the surface in front of him. There’s pictures of birthdays. There’s a few Christmas cards. Richard Parker wears a Santa hat in one of them, and it makes Tony’s stomach turn. They look so completely normal, but Tony knows better. 

And looking closer, he can see the cracks. Some of them Peter’s making that face Tony has seen one too many times. Smiling, but faking it. Grim. An expression Tony thought comes from spending four years being experimented on and treated like an animal, not one he’d ever expect from a child.

On the other side of the folder, there’s a stack of Peter’s crayon drawings. Although he feels he’s violating some sort of boundary by doing so, he flips through them. They’re all pretty typical. Stick drawings of his family. A superhero saving cat from a tree. Tony pushes away the idea it sort of looks like Captain America with his shield. More stick drawings of families. And then Tony gets to one that causes him to stop. He removes it from the folder and looks at it harder.

It’s eerily familiar.

* * *

 

Peter and Harry sit together at lunch. 

They aren’t friends. Not yet. Sitting across from each other at a table too large for just two people has nothing to do with friendship, or even the mission. It’s a survival instinct. They’re the only two of their kind at Midtown, and now that Peter has allowed his disguise to swallow him whole, the lie doesn’t matter. It has no effect on reality that he isn’t really Peter Stark, that he wasn’t really born with the same social standing as Harry. After just half a day, the whole school believes, and their belief makes it true.

An abrupt arrival snaps him away from his thoughts. Michelle sets her orange lunch tray down exactly four seats away from where Peter sits, carelessly throws her messenger bag on the table and takes a book from her bag’s front pocket. She doesn’t acknowledge them, doesn’t seem to notice both boys looking at her. Harry with distaste, and Peter blank, observing, trying to figure out how he’s going to get her to forget he’s really Parker without turning it into a bigger deal. She puts the book, _The Child Thief_ , in front of her face, and picks up a square of soggy, cafeteria pizza.

“I can’t believe you’re eating that,” says Harry. Michelle’s face reappears from the top of the book. “I bet this place has rats. I bet the kitchen is swarming with them.”

Michelle blinks. She takes a bite. “That’s what makes it taste so good.” 

Harry makes a mortified, disgusted face, before securing the blue lid back on the glass container still holding half of his lunch. Peter has his own series of containers he’s eating from but sees no reason why someone else’s bad food decisions should ruin his lunch.

Looking at Michelle’s pizza makes him confident he made the right decision, or at least, let Tony make the right decision for him. A couple of nights ago Pepper asked him if he wanted to buy his lunch at school or bring his own. Peter never got the chance to respond. Tony answered for him. He explained to Pepper he’d never survive eating food from the cafeteria, and Pepper put in an order with the shopper to bring ingredients for him to pack his own.

Harry puts his lunch away and switches it with a notebook and a bundle of marker pens held together with a rubber band. He continues to work on the same drawing Peter has been watching grow into existence since first period, during the classes him and Harry share, and it reminds him of being in the workshop with Tony, of spinning mere thoughts into reality.

Peter looks back and forth between the two of them. Both of them problems he doesn’t know how to solve. He doesn’t know how to do this, how to befriend someone, or how to make someone forget his name. He doesn’t know where or how to start.

“That’s a cool drawing,” Peter offers, weakly.

“I know,” says Harry. He keeps his head pointed down, shading in characters who are killing each other with incredible weapons. It’s impossible to tell who’s the hero and who’s the villain, and Peter doesn’t ask. He doesn’t trust Harry’s opinion.

The conversation dies.

Michelle flips a page of her book. She takes another bite of the pizza that will probably poison her.

“Is it good?” asks Peter. He makes a big deal about turning in his chair and facing her, so she realizes the question is directed at her. “The book – not the pizza.”

“Uh huh,” she says. She turns another page. She doesn’t look at Peter, either.

He sighs and turns back around in his chair. 

He fidgets with his fork, but he doesn’t eat anymore. He’s hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion, and he thinks the caffeine must be wearing off. He’s crashing. He drops his fork into his lunch, cradles his head in his hand and props his elbow against the table, wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and shut off his brain. He thinks he might. He thinks he could drop off into sleep that moment, until the sound of Flash’s annoying voice drags him away from that dark, quiet place and back into the harsh reality fluorescent lights and people talking all at once. 

Flash’s voice is heard above all others, and the sound of it makes Peter want to slam his head against the table. As Flash gets louder, gets closer to where he sits while he follows a boy named Ned from one of Peter’s earlier classes, he becomes less tired, more agitated, and the voice that tell him he shouldn’t get involved has no energy left to speak.

Peter stands up, quickly and forcefully, and he plants himself between Flash and Ned.

He blinks, surprised he’s being met with resistance, then regains his bearings.

“Look, Stark,” he says. “I don’t have a problem with you.”

“Great,” says Peter. “Turn around and walk the other way and I won’t have a problem with you.”

Flash’s eyes turn steely, and the rest of his features set into a determined scowl. He’s passed trying to be Peter’s friend in his own demented way, apparent by his expression, and has moved straight onto looking for a fight. He moves several inches closer to Peter, probably in an attempt to intimidate, but it doesn’t work. Peter doesn’t even blink.

“And what if I don’t? What can you even do about it?” asks Flash. “Call Iron Man and tell on me? Is Tony Stark going to come in and complain to the Principal? You don’t look like…”

Flash doesn’t finish his sentence. Peter pushes him. Light. Or at least he means to only push him a little bit, but Flash isn’t expecting the force and he stumbles backwards. He looks at Peter, shock and anger fighting for control of his face, before he storms away. He smiles weakly, celebrating a quick victory, but his success is short lived. Flash hadn’t fled the fight from fear. Whatever teacher tasked with monitoring the cafeteria is approaching and doing so very quickly.

He stops in front of him, writes on a green slip of paper and hands it to him.

“Finish your lunch. Then take this to the guidance office.”

Peter sits back down with a sigh.

“Way to go, Parker,” says MJ. More ice in his chest. “Sent to the office twice on the first day? Achievement unlocked. Props for sticking up for the little guy, though.”

Harry gives him a pitying look, and Peter doesn’t bother eating the rest of his lunch. He packs it away, slow, and then troops off the guidance office, feeling like a failure, feeling like the gods are conspiring against him and he can’t do anything right. Harry’s still distant. Michelle still calls him Parker, and now Flash is still roaming the cafeteria, free and pissed off. A dangerous combination. 

He opens the door to Nat’s office without knocking, because he’s accepted the fact she always hears him coming, and hands her the green slip before throwing himself back down into the chair. 

She reads the paper, then looks at him. “You pushed another student?”

“I don’t like bullies.”

“No, I didn’t think you would,” says Nat, and her voice is no longer reprimanding, like earlier. Probably, his weariness is apparent just by looking at him, and for once, he doesn’t feel insulted by someone going easy on him. It’s welcome, actually. He doesn’t think he can handle any more talk about the mission, about laying low, which is what Peter had thought she would say.

“Find a more creative way to deal with them,” she says, looks back at the paper and squints her eyes to read the tiny handwriting. “You were only sent to me instead of the Principal because, apparently, you need to learn to develop healthy coping mechanisms for your grief.”

He frowns and follows it with a scoff. “What the hell does Mr. Cafeteria Monitor know about coping with anything?”

A heavy silence floats in the air. The ticking from the analog clock stuck up in the corner is the loudest noise in the room.

“Do you want to talk about them? The nightmares?”

“No.”

“Better get back to class then,” she tells him.

Peter leaves her office without another word, gets out of there before he can express his frustration about Tony telling everyone about his nightmares, before he can correct Nat that he isn’t technically going back to class. Lunch isn’t over yet.

He steps out into the main hall, takes a deep breath and tries to focus. Three more hours. Just three more hours and he can go home. Home? He shakes the thought away. Back to the penthouse. He can handle that. He can keep it together for just three more hours. He puts his head up just in time to see Michelle disappear into a room at the end of the hall. The library, it turns out, when Peter is close enough to see.

He stands outside it for a moment. Debating, but it doesn’t take him long to decide to go in. Peter can do this one thing. He can complete the side quest, and it’s the perfect opportunity to do so. One of the only chances he has to confront her alone.

Peter finds her sitting under a window pane, book in front of her face, at the end of aisle in the fiction section. Books surround them on both sides, and sunshine pouring in from the window highlights the specs of dust suspended in the air, making them sparkle as they float around. Strangely, he forgets he’s tired. He forgets he’s a frustrated failure. 

“Stalk much?”

“I’m not stalking you,” says Peter, quickly, horrified at the idea of someone thinking he’s creep. “I just… look, I appreciate your appreciation for alliteration, but if you could… just stop calling me Parker.”

Michelle shuts the book she’s reading, the thump it makes is loud in the otherwise quiet library, and she stares at him. “Why?”

“Well, it’s not my name.” 

“Anymore,” she says. 

“Right,” says Peter.

“Fine. Back to Stark it is, but you should probably practice responding to it if you don’t want to blow your secret identity.”

“Wh – what?”

“Dude, I’m kidding,” she says. “Relax, _Stark_.”

Peter recovers quickly, but he doesn’t like the sound of that name either. Not on him, and not her being the one who says it. “Just Peter, actually. Call me Peter.” 

“Okay,” She pauses, before saying, “MJ. My friends call me MJ.” 

He smiles at her, and walks away, leaving her to the dust and the books. He has to put some confidence into the idea her joke hitting close to home being just a coincidence, but he doesn’t care. The side quest is complete, and now he just has to worry about Harry. He sighs. Realizing. Now he just has to worry about Harry.

Gain his trust. Break his trust.

The words sound simple, the objective seems quite clear, but Peter knows they’re not. It’s going to be a long year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guy! Thanks so much for being patient, I've been wanting to upload more often but life's been crazy, and thanks to everyone in the comment section, you guys are seriously awesome!! 
> 
> The next chapter it going to be really long (unless it gets cut into two parts) so it'll probably be about a week before it's posted.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!


	14. come away, come away!

  1. come away, come away!



Peter decides the world looks better from behind his sunglasses. It’s dark and dim and the sun loses all its power to catch him off guard and blind him. In a way, it’s like he’s back in his bedroom with the curtains drawn, hiding under the covers and asleep, or at least pretending to be, even though morning has arrived for them all and there’s no kidding himself, he’s definitely wide awake. He’s marching up the steps of the school, willing but not completely ready for round two, and when steps inside and releases the heavy door, letting it fall behind him, he doesn’t bother removing the glasses from his eyes.

He gets a few strange looks from other students in the hallway, but they are quick to look away and he’s too tired to care. Let them stare. He’s learned there are far worse ways to be watched. Like having a babysitter even at school, like having Tony refuse to trust him enough to keep the balcony door unlocked at night, even when Peter resorted to asking in a way too closely resembling begging for him to be comfortable with.

“No,” Tony had said, immediate and crushing, and also, not considering Peter’s theory that it would help the nightmares go away.

“Why?”

Tony didn’t look at him, and now thinking back, Peter thinks it was probably on purpose. He’d been laying on his place on the couch, fresh from a nightmare, gripping the edges of his blanket, looking pathetic, he’s sure.

“You know why,” said Tony, and his tone suggested the conversation was over, so Peter didn’t push it any further.

It’s unfair and frustrating, and the injustice still stings and burns the back of his eyes. He’s angry with Tony, for not trusting him, but also, for being intelligent enough not to trust him. There’s an ache in the very back of his thoughts, one that’s sore and unyielding and knows Tony is doing the right thing. If the door comes unlocked, Peter goes out the door. It’s impulse he’s not fully in control of, a need to dull and numb that ache, to shut it up, by wandering away – not running away – he thinks, or knows, there’s a difference. 

Peter reaches his locker through the maze of loud, chattering students, works the lock, then scrunches up his face at the jarring screech the metal makes as the door creeks open. His sunglasses make the inside of his locker difficult to decipher, but he powers through it. He grabs the correct text book, notebook and folder, shoves them in his bag, slings the strap over one shoulder and this time, carefully closes his locker, desperate to avoid any more unpleasant sounds assaulting his ears.

He finds Ned Leeds standing on the other side of it when the door closes, staring at him and gripping the straps of his bookbag.

“You’re wearing sunglasses,” he states. 

“Yeah.”

Ned looks confused, and Peter doesn’t blame him, but he moves past it with a blink and shuffling of his feet. “I just want to say… thanks for um sticking for me yesterday. Flash can be a jerk sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” asks Peter. “If I have to listen to him again all day, I think my ears will explode.” 

Ned laughs. Peter doesn’t see what’s funny. He’s not joking. He isn’t sure what it would take to make his heightened senses to go into overdrive, but if he has to take a guess, he’s willing to bet Flash’s voice on repeat, yelling in the hallway, would do the trick.

Peter notices Ned’s shirt. It’s a grey t-shirt with a badge emblem imprinted across the chest.

“You like _Heroes Assemble_?”

“Of course,” says Ned. “Who doesn’t?”

“T – My dad says it’s ridiculous,” Peter explains. “Something about it just being a bad rip-off, just what TV producers think the Avengers are like.”

 “But, that’s why it’s so good.”

“That’s what I keep trying to tell him,” says Peter. 

They start towards first period, their voices joining the volume in the hall with talk about their favorite show, and it’s the first real conversation Peter’s had with someone his own age, save the time him and Harry talked on the balcony, though he suspects that conversation had been fueled more by alcohol than anything else. Harry hasn’t been very forthcoming since. Talking to Ned is different. It’s easy. No effort required, and Peter can’t figure out if it’s because Ned is a better choice for a friend, or if it’s because Harry’s a mission.

Two girls walk pass them, headed down the hallway in the opposite direction, but looking Peter up and down as they do. Giggling at him, grinning at him, either making fun of him for wearing sunglasses indoors or impressed by it. He’s guessing it’s the later. There doesn’t seem to be anything Peter Stark can do to sway the public opinion against him. 

“They’re going to make you take them off,” says Ned. “Eventually.”

Peter sighs, realizing Ned is right and they will have to come off, so before they cross the threshold between the hallway and first period, he takes them off, facing the world and finding, surprisingly, the light doesn’t nag at him the way he imagined it would. Harry’s already seated in the back of the classroom, and when he looks up at Peter, he shots him a questioning expression. Peter stops himself from rolling his eyes. He’s knows what Harry is thinking. He knows Harry wants to ask him why he’s walking into class chatting and smiling with a nobody. 

It’s not personal against Ned. Harry thinks everyone at Midtown is a nobody. Save himself and Peter.

He slides into his desk next to Harry and shoves his bookbag on the floor next to his feet. Ned takes the desk in front of him, turns around immediately and they resume their conversation, much to Harry’s obvious displeasure.

“So, does Mr. Stark let you wear the Iron Man armor?”

Peter pauses, trying to imagine Tony’s face if he were to ask, and smiles. “Nah, but he lets me help him upgrade it sometimes.”

“Awesome!”

“Yeah, it’s great,” says Harry. “Peter and his dad build weapons of mass destruction, then we all get terrorized by aliens.”

“Better than e –“ The bell cuts him off, thankfully, but the reply is still on his lips, still wanting to be spoken out loud and acknowledged by the son of the man who locked him away for four years, who’s still causing him to miss out of his freedom, in a sense. Harry doesn’t seem curious as to what was about to be said, either willfully blind, or too proud to be suspicious. 

Ned turns back around, and Peter stares down at his desk, then his eyes move back and forth between Ned and Harry. It’s clear Harry doesn’t like Ned, even if Peter can’t understand why, and it’s even more clear that if he has to choose between the two of them, it has to be Harry, has to be him if he ever wants to see Norman in prison. It’s a depressing realization, and he only grows more certain he’s going to have to pick as the day goes on.

By the time the bell rings for lunch, he’s completely sure, but still unwilling to let go of having a real friend, so he invites Ned to sit with them. It’s a wishful thought that sharing a meal together will cause Harry to forget about his lower-class prejudice, and that’s all it is, wishful. Ned sits down in the seat next to Peter, between him and MJ, who’s once again, sitting exactly four seats away, and Harry glares. 

He doesn’t, however, get up and go to another table, so Peter thinks Ned must be making progress. 

Peter and Ned move on from topics like Netflix shows and how many of the Avengers Peter has met to more important things, like Star Wars, like the dynamics of Ned’s family, which Peter finds fascinating, because they sound so normal and happy. Ned tells him about his most recent birthday party at an arcade, where his little sister stuck an M&M up her nose and they all ate cake in her room at the ER. 

“Wait,” says Harry, his attention tempted away from his lunch by the story. “You had your birthday at 1up?”

“Yeah,” says Ned. “You’ve been?”

Harry shakes his head. “I hear it’s just okay. Too bad it’s in Queens.”

“Queens?” asks Peter. He can’t keep the hopeful note from his voice, and it provokes weird looks from both Ned and Harry.

“Yeah,” says Harry. He leans back in his chair, and stares at Peter. A challenging and a suggestive look takes over his face, both he shifts his eyes over to Ned. “We should go.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees without really thinking about it, without really stopping to think Tony wouldn’t agree to let him go, not without him or Nat or Happy or someone else hanging around in the shadows, and that seems like the most unfun and sad situation he can think up. 

“We’ll make a break for it after the bell, then,” says Harry, as he begins to put his empty lunch containers away. 

“Wait, what?”

“We’re going to 1up.”

“I thought you meant after school or on a weekend –“ 

“-What, afraid of getting caught?”

Peter and Harry lock eyes, and Peter doesn’t know what he should do, but he’s already decided what he’s going to do, knows the choice no longer belonged to the logical part of his brain once the words left Harry’s mouth. It’s bait, but it’s bait he can’t resist. A trip home. He has to go, and besides, he’ll never get what he needs from Harry if he thinks he’s a coward. This is necessary for the mission. He just hopes he can convince Tony of that when he inevitably gets caught and has to face his wrath.

“No, let’s go.”  

Harry’s expression remains the same when he turns to Ned. “What about you, Leeds? In or out?”

“In, I guess,” says Ned, though it’s clear he’s nervous and uncertain. 

“If you losers are skipping,” says MJ, face still hidden behind her book. “Count me in.”

Harry narrows his eyes at her but allows it. 

And the rest is a blur, from when the bell rings to when Peter races to his locker in order to ditch his cell phone and his smart watch to when they’re sneaking out the back entrance, carefully avoiding passing by the guidance office, to when they’re all outside and free, with a fresh breeze hitting their faces and encouraging them forward. 

* * *

Steve looks down at the large table in one of the compound’s many conference rooms, tilting his head at and trying to make sense of the series of crayon drawings laid out across it. He’s fairly certain there isn’t any sense to made of them. That Tony, apparent from his ragged looks, might possibly be going insane. He remains adamant him and Bucky should know exactly what they depict, but Steve can only see the scribbles of a child. They invoke questions, but none about the drawings themselves.

How and why Tony acquired childhood artwork and family photos from Peter’s past remains on the forefront of Steve’s thoughts. He doesn’t voice the questions out loud again. He already asked once and got no real answers.

Steve switches his focus from the drawings to Tony, who’s too busy to nice him staring. He’s fiddling around with the folder he pulled the drawings from.

“Tony,” says Steve. His head snaps up, and he meets Steve’s eyes. “Are you… well? You look a bit tired.”

“Fantastic,” says Tony, and he returns to pointlessly rummaging through the folder. Then stops. He looks back up at Steve. “The kid has nightmares, and he’s not supposed to be alone at night. I know it’s not your strong suit, but you do the math.”

Steve fights away the urge to tell Tony the kid wouldn’t be having nightmares if he hadn’t removed him from the compound so quickly, just when he’d been starting to grow comfortable and secure, after several weeks of hard nights. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be left up to Tony alone to deal with it. But he doesn’t say anything. He lets the moment pass. It’s useless and divisive to bring up all that again. The damage is done, and now that the mission is started, they might as well see it through.

“Maybe bring him back around here for the weekend,” says Steve. “Hand him off to us so you can get some sleep.”

“I would,” says Tony, his voice drawling and his eyes settling on Bucky. “But him and Bucky can’t play nice and get along.” 

“He spends too much time around you to be bearable,” he replies.

“I will watch him,” Steve assures, quickly. Always the peacemaker, well, most of the time.  

Tony makes a noise that’s noncommittal, but also very telling, then redirects attention back to the drawings. “What do these look like to you?”

“It looks like that room,” says Bucky, flat and automatic. “The one we were held in…” He points to the paper in the center of the table. A unique one. There’s a mess of orange and red covering the black boxes Tony and Bucky believe make out the training room in the facility. “I don’t know what this is supposed to be.”

“Fire,” says Tony.

“Ahhh.”

Steve squints at the pictures harder, tilts his head some more, and he supposes he can see it now. It’s a stretch, but he can at least see where they are coming from. There’re patterns. It’s clear every picture is a different variation of the same thing, but still, he’s not sure he buys it.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “These could be anything. It’s just like seeing shapes in the clouds. You project whatever you’re think onto it.”

“First time me and Barnes agree on something, and you wanna throw it out?” 

“Peter would’ve told us if he’s been to New Life before his parents died. He would’ve mentioned something.”

“You’ve obviously never tried to get information from that kid before.”

“He may not remember,” Bucky suggests, then turns to Tony. “You should be talking to him instead of bothering us with it. And don’t you think he has a right to see those photos?”

Tony sets his jaw. “He’s going to see them. When he’s ready.”

“And that’s for you to decide?” 

“Damn right,” says Tony, and before they can get into, the cell phone on the table buzzes, bringing up a picture of Nat. Seeing who it’s from, Tony grabs the phone without hesitation and retreats into a back corner to take the call. 

Seconds later, Bruce walks into the conference, looking just as worn and tired as Tony, and looks around. He’s become a determined man, a man on a mission, since they returned back from the facility. Last time Steve checked in with him, he’d seemed optimistic, for once, and like the antidote to whatever poison Oscorp invented was almost ready to go.

“FRIDAY told me Tony was here,” says Bruce. 

Steve points to the corner, and Bruce nods when he sees him. They hear him aggressively say goodbye to Nat, watch him march back into the center of the room and gather the drawings into one, sloppy stack before attempting to shove them back into the folder.

“Everything okay?”

Tony doesn’t answer. He slams the folder shut and moves to the door. Bruce steps into his way.

“I need to go over some numbers with you,” he tells Tony. “Some of them… well, I can’t make any sense of it.”

“No time,” says Tony, as he brushes past him. He hollers back at them on his way out, “I have to go kill a kid.”

Bruce looks at Steve, questions in his eyes, but he only shrugs in response. He doesn’t have a clue. 

* * *

Freedom provides Peter with a happy moment, but that’s all it is, a moment. A snapshot of an otherwise depressing season of life.

At least it’s a good-looking picture. 

He’s back in Queens, wandering down a random sidewalk on a random street, talking with people he’s beginning to think of as friends. Even Harry, even with his careful distance and snide remarks. He and MJ are bickering somewhere behind him, about what, Peter doesn’t know, doesn’t care enough to pay attention to them. He nods and pretends to listen as Ned talks excitedly about something, but his thoughts are soaring too high to form any responses. His eyes soak in as much of home as he can manage.

He doesn’t remember this particular street, or the shops and businesses on it. It doesn’t matter. Home’s more of a feeling than a place, something more abstract than a fleeting a memory or a building.

They move down the sidewalk quickly, Ned’s cellphone pulled out and Google Maps directing them where to go, where to turn, if they need to. There isn’t much foot traffic besides themselves, and they don’t draw very much attention. Peter with his sunglasses and Harry with his invisibility, and Ned and MJ with their privilege of being normal. Up ahead and moving towards them, a woman is pulling her young, uncooperative son along by his hand while he cries and tries to plant his feet on the concrete outside the small grocery store. 

“I wanted chocolate! I wanted chocolate!”

The ground shifts beneath Peter’s feet. His head is fuzzy, and the world is spinning.  

_“I want to go home…”_

_“We’re going… I promise, we’re on our way.”_

Peter comes to a halt, his soaring thoughts are shot from the sky and take a nosedive, plummeting into the cold, hard ground while he fights with his legs to keep his body from sharing the same fate. Harry nearly runs into his back, and Ned keeps walking for a few seconds before he stops, looks back at Peter, who barely registers all attention is now on him. He stares at the mother and her son as they pass them by, and she gives them all an apologetic smile as they do, the boy continuing to scream about candy as she continues to drag him along the sidewalk.

“Hey man, are you good?” asks Ned. 

“What?”

Harry waves his hand in front of Peter’s face. “You’re spazzing out.”

“No, I’m not, I just…” says Peter. His eyes don’t leave the screaming boy and his mom until they turn the corner.

“You just look like you’ve seen a ghost,” says MJ, finishing the sentence for him, even though that’s not remotely close to what he had been going to say.

But maybe she’s not far off. Maybe he is seeing ghosts. The kind that aren’t really there. Peter hasn’t imagined his mom since the night him and Tony visited the diner for the first time, since he agreed to pretend to be somebody else’s son, but in Queens, she’s impossible to ignore. She’s across the street, arms crossed, looking at him with her eyebrows furrowed. Angry. He can’t pin point the reason this time. There’re too many possibilities to choose from.

Ditching school sits at the top of the list now, but it’s not like all the others. There’s only so much anger that can be felt from beyond the grave. Peter is surprised he feels guilty, not because he imagines his dead mom would want him to feel that way, but because this is something Tony wouldn’t allow him to do. Peter, on the streets of Queens, virtually alone without protection, without his cell phone or smart watch. No way to track him. No way to know if he’s in any trouble.

Peter didn’t expect the thought to bother him so badly when he was in the process of escaping the school, when he ran laughing through the back exit with Harry, Ned and MJ. He’d been carried by adrenaline, but that’s been zapped away and replaced by a sobering reality. He’s not a regular kid who’s skipping school. He’s a hunted kid running away from the people working so hard to keep him safe.

He pushes against the thought. Too late for guilt. He’s at least going to try and have fun.

“Hello?” This time it’s MJ swiping her hand in his face. “Anyone in there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” says Peter.

MJ gives him a skeptical look, and standing next to her, Harry looks strange. He’s got an expression stretched across his face Peter’s never seen from him before, and he’s not sure if it’s something he can fully understand.

“We’re almost there,” says Ned, face in his phone. “Just a few streets over now.”

They walk in relative silence until they’re standing outside of the arcade, and Peter follows Ned through the door, holding it open for Harry or MJ to take hold of it. He’s greeted by colorful lights and the sounds of game machines, a mix between techno beeping and gun blasts. They walk further into the arcade, and the floor turns from tiles to carpet, black with neon stars and planets, bright colors that would shine brilliantly under a blacklight. Peter flushes with relief when he notices the arcade is almost completely empty. A benefit of being there in the middle of the day, he’s sure. 

Harry disappears on them. Peter doesn’t see him go, but rather notices he isn’t around. Looking around, he can’t spot him, so he shrugs and walks with MJ and Ned to the machines where they can turn their cash into tokens. He’s lucky Tony threw cash as well as a credit card in the wallet he gifted him with before school started. There’s a lot of credit cards on the machine, but Peter’s suspicious of swiping it. He doesn’t know how long it will take for Tony to be notified about the charge, if he’d be notified, so instead he pulls out a bill. He frowns at it when he sees it’s a hundred.

“You don’t think this machine takes hundreds, do you?” he asks Ned and MJ.

Ned’s eyes go wide as he’s about to answer, but MJ snatches the bill from his hand and marches over to harass the man unhappy middle-aged man working the prize counter before he can say anything. She shoves the hundred-dollar bill in the man’s face.

“I need eighty dollars change and twenty dollars of tokens,” she tells him.

The man scowls but gives her what she asks for. He hands her the change. It takes him awhile longer to fumble around with tokens and put them in a plastic bag. Eventually, he manages it and MJ returns with a baggie filled with dark gold game tokens. Dark, because they’re stained with dirt, clumped together and crammed in the 1up inscription on both sides of the coin.  

MJ holds the bag in front of her face. Eying it. “I think he shorted us.”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Peter. He takes it from her in one swift, fluid movement, catching her off guard, and collects his eighty dollars in change from her other hand. 

Then they take to the games, but they aren’t as fun as they should be. Still feeling guilty, still looking around and not seeing Harry, Peter’s focus is all over the place and he loses to either Ned or MJ every time. Mostly Ned, who has managed to forget about his nervousness about breaking the rules and seems to be having the most fun out of all of them. MJ eventually gets tired of losing, slinks off to some corner to pop her book open, and a few minutes after that, Ned leaves Peter standing in the middle of the game room floor to go to the bathroom.

He puts his hands in his pockets and looks around. No sign of Harry, but there is a guy slumming it in sweatpants and a baggy hoodie, hunched over a jackpot machine and obsessively putting tokens through the slots. He watches each one as it falls, stomps his feet when it has no effect at knocking any of the tokens in the machine over, then starts the process over again. With a little bit of focus, Peter hears his heart hammering away in his chest, fast, and he wonders how desperate a person would have to be to get worked up over game tokens. It’s not a casino. It’s only pretend gambling.

The man turns, and Peter reads the words stitched into his jacket. Oscorp Distributing. His question is answered. A man desperate enough to work for Norman Osborn, that’s who.

Peter returns to Harry hunting, and moves up the winding, red metal staircase situated at the center of the room, leading to the arcade’s second floor. Once he’s up all the way, Harry isn’t hard to find. He’s sitting behind a game with two blue plastic guns in holsters, used as controllers, and ignoring it completely. Instead, he’s playing on his phone, leading Peter to wonder why Harry even wanted to come here in the first place.

“How’s poor and poorer?” he asks, once he realizes Peter is approaching. He takes a seat next to Harry inside a game identical to the one he occupies.

Peter ignores the question and tries not to think about which one Harry has dubbed poorer. “You peer pressured us into ditching school and coming here with you, so you could stay up here and play on your phone by yourself?”

“No,” says Harry. “I peer pressured _you_ into coming. I thought Ned would chicken out. Besides, you wanted to come. You got all starry eyed when I mentioned Queens, so I gave you an excuse.”

It takes a little bit effort for Peter not to look away. He doesn’t like believing he’s so easily read. 

“So, what’s the deal?” pushes Harry. “Long lost relative your father won’t let you see? An old friend? An old girlfriend? What’s so great around here, other than obvious novelty of seeing an actual dumpster fire or street fight?”

“I used to live here with my mom, before we moved,” says Peter. “A long time ago.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I haven’t been back since.”

An awkward silence falls over them both, broken only when Harry readjusts himself in the hard, plastic chair.

“I never told you before, but I’m sorry for your lost,” he tells him. It’s a polite, generic statement, something passed around and said out of obligation, but there’s none of that in Harry’s tone. He almost sounds… sincere.

Both boys turn and look at the stairs. Ned and MJ are wandering up, and when they make it to the landing, they don’t notice Peter and Harry, and soon get distracted from looking for them by another game.

“They aren’t like us, you know? They’ll never understand what it’s like, no matter how badly you want them to,” says Harry. “The sooner you learn that, the better.”

Peter begins to ask if Harry means losing someone, or being an insanely wealthy son of a billionaire, but he never gets the chance.

“You two plan on sitting in there all day, or you going to let someone else have a shot?”

He moves to get up from the chair. Harry has other plans.

“There’s about fifty other games just like these,” he says. “Find a different one, or you can take a number.”

“That one is lucky,” he says. His face twitches. “I know you, you’re that Osborn kid. Your father’s a piece of shit, you know that?" 

“Dude,” says Peter, unsure where the disgust is coming from, completely baffled by the fact he’s about to practically stick up for Norman Osborn. He tells himself again it’s for the mission, not for Harry. “You’re a grown man harassing teenagers in an arcade in the middle of the day, what does that make you?" 

“Wouldn’t be here in the middle of the day if it weren’t for Mr. Osborn laying me off,” he says. “Still, I suppose I’m one of the lucky ones. Most people aren’t ever heard from again when they leave Oscorp, maybe ask your father about that.”

“That’s a conspiracy theory,” says Harry.

Peter keeps an uneasy eye on where the guy is putting his hand. His hoodie is conveniently baggy enough to conceal a weapon, and the man’s right hand is hovering near his belt. He listens in to his increasing heartrate, and wishes Harry would stop talking, just let the guy have his lucky game. To make matters worse, MJ and Ned choose this moment to join them and Peter is sure he’s about to have a small audience witnessing him using his powers.   

“Maybe if I rough up his son a little bit he’ll quit being such an asshole…" 

“I wouldn’t.”

Relief floods him, followed by dread, at the sight of Clint standing eerily still behind the disgruntled, former Oscorp worker. He won’t have to chance using his powers, but also, he hasn’t lasted as long as he expected to before being found out and caught and dragged back to school, or more likely, the penthouse. He’d hoped he could at last make it back to school before facing the unavoidable. 

“What’cha gonna do about it, huh?”

“You can’t afford to find out.”  

The guy looks him up and down, decides the fight isn’t worth it and walks away with one last sneer directed at Harry.

Once he’s gone, Clint looks down at Peter and says, “That man had a gun.”

As if he’s really saying this is stupid and dangerous and a mistake, and Peter can’t understand, doesn’t grasp why all the adults around him insist on ignoring the plain fact he has literal superpowers and could have handled an angry man with a gun easily, even if it he’s supposed to be keeping his powers a secret.

“Happy has the car outside.”  

“Right,” says Peter. He tells his friends goodbye with a few careful glances, and retreats to staircase, pausing once he gets there, noticing Clint is still hanging around behind. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Someone has to make these kids get home without getting shot at.”

Peter sighs, gives his friends more apologetic looks and descends the stairs, mournfully, but not regretfully. It was nice to be back, even if it was only for a little awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!! I can't really believe how long this chapter turned out to be, and it was gonna be longer, but I decided to make it two separate chapters, cause I feel like anything longer than 5k is just too much. Please let me know in the comment section if you feel differently and don't mind the super long chapters. 
> 
> And as always, you guys in the comment section are so amazing! Thanks for reading!!


	15. small as stars

  1. small as stars



 

15\. small as stars

“What were you thinking?”

Peter doesn’t even have time to pull the car door shut before the question is fired. He takes a breath, shuts the door with a slam and tries to make himself comfortable, leaning back in the car’s leather seat and wishing he could disappear inside it and reappear on the other side of this conversation. He’d been resigned to his fate at first. He knew the very moment he put one foot outside the school doors he’d be caught, and Tony would be angry, and at the time, he’d been fully prepared to tune out whatever lecture Tony’s short temper could brew up.

But now, it’s different. He’s facing off with the moment in the present. It’s not something looming in the future, or some far off consequence with something fun sitting between the decision to break the boundaries and the resulting fallout. Now that it’s the present, his current situation, he’s no longer resigned to it. There’s something about the tight set of Tony’s jaw that makes him want to roll his eyes or kick the back of the seat in front of him. He refrains. It’s not Happy’s fault Tony is overreacting.

“Well…” says Tony. 

“What?” It’s whirling, annoyed and flippant, and Peter isn’t putting any effort into changing his tone into anything else.

“I’m waiting for some sort of response, kid, cause you better have a good reason for running off and burning through every safety net we’ve put in place for you.”

Peter narrows his eyes, then looks away from Tony altogether. He clenches his jaw shut. Now that he knows a verbal response is what he’s looking for, Peter isn’t going to give him one. It’s a rush of power. Being able to deny someone something they want. Especially Tony, who’s keeping him locked up in the penthouse and locked up at school and denying him his freedom. In a way, it’s his fault he’d been so easily persuaded away from school, and if he wasn’t devoted to giving the man the silent treatment, he’d gladly tell him. 

Happy flips on the turn signal, and it’s blinking is the only sound radiating throughout the car, as Peter and Tony continued their stand-off. They slowly creep forward, almost ready to merge with Queens traffic, when Tony stretches out his arm and points at Happy, though his eyes remain fixed on Peter.

“This car doesn’t move until he speaks.”

The brakes are deployed, Happy puts the car in park and the blinking noise goes away, leaving them back to uneasy, tense silence. Tony’s cutting into the side of his head with a glare, turned in his seat to face him, with one hand on the back of passenger’s side seat and his other gripping the headrest of his own. Peter doesn’t look at him. Stares straight ahead at the black leather in front of him. He does, however, give up on his fight to stay silent.

He doesn’t want to sit in a car all evening in Queens warring with Tony.

“I don’t need any safety nets,” says Peter. “And I don’t need Clint following me around like I’m some little kid." 

“I didn’t realize keeping you safe was such an inconvenience for you.”

“Safe from what? You keep saying that, but there’s nothing out there. Nobody’s looking for me, and if they were, I can defend myself. I don’t need babysitters.”

“Obviously you do,” says Tony. “You’ve been at school for two days, you’ve already started a fight – “

“-I didn’t start anything. I finished – “

Tony silences him with another slicing glare, leaving him trailing off and unable to finish the sentence. He hates that, so he groans instead, throwing his head up and pushing it even further against the leather. He catches Happy’s look in the rearview mirror. It’s a warning. One Peter plans on ignoring as he straightens back out and gives Tony a dead look.

“I’m confused. Do you want me to talk or not?”

“I want you to stop and think things through before rushing into action,” says Tony, “Which I know you didn’t do, because if you’d given it any thought at all you would have realized all you needed to do was tell one of us where you were going and someone could have covered you.”

There isn’t any part of Peter that thinks this is true, that if he called Tony up and asked him to skip school, he’d let him go. Then he thinks about it some more. If it were about the mission, he would have. For sure. With a cover. With Clint in the shadows, like he had been already, and it leads Peter to the truth he’s known all along. Running off to the arcade didn’t have anything to do with the mission, to getting close to Harry, but everything to do with Queens. With freedom. With getting back at Tony.

“Instead, you decided to go rogue, put yourself in danger, put all those other kids in danger,” says Tony. His eyebrows furrowed together, and he gets another wind. “And now you’re sitting in my car, glaring at me, like you’re the one who’s got the right to be angry, when actually that privilege is all mine. Mine and the other people who’ve put their life on hold to make sure you’re not snatched up by Norman’s henchmen.”

The guilt from earlier comes prickling back in, but Peter’s persistent. He shoves it away, stuffs in a closet and locks the door. “I didn’t ask for this. Any of it.” 

“No, you didn’t, but it’s the hand you got,” says Tony. “And if it’s too difficult for you to stay where you’re supposed to be and follow basic instructions, maybe it’s best if you go back to the compound until this is settled.”

“What?” Peter looks at Tony directly for the first time. Feeling a lot like the air has been knocked from him. “W-what about Norman?”

“I rather have you safe than Norman in prison.” 

Peter lets his head fall against the side of the window, shot down and defeated by words, and not wanting to say anything else. Not because he’s playing another game, there’s no more power up for grabs here, but because he’s afraid of digging a deeper hole he will eventually be buried in, under the weight of a forced stay with Steve or Bucky at the compound. Somehow, it seems more like a prison sentence than his situation now, where at least he’s useful and gets to go to school and make friends.

The car rolls forward, the turn signal starts blinking again, and eventually, they join the rest of the cars in the line of traffic, now that Tony is satisfied Peter has been properly scolded. He looks back at him. He’s not paying attention to Peter anymore. He’s on his phone, checking his email or sending out a text, but still looking bothered, concerned. Worried.

His last statement rings in his ears, and he’s gripped with something frightening. A panic he can’t describe. Not brought about by the threat of the compound, that’s a different kind of worry. This feels familiar to the panic he felt the night of Osborn’s charity gala, to seeing his very permanent bedroom, but it’s more real than before. Now it’s in the moment. Before it had been far off, a premediated worry, about how things will be after the mission is completed and the world still thinks he’s Peter Stark.

That worry – that obligation for them to be a family, it’d been easier to ignore when they were just pretending to be one. Tony’s ruined it. Shattered the illusion, the safety of just pretending. He’s dragged the unspoken reality out to where Peter doesn’t want it, the light, with all his talk about ‘until this is settled’ or cancelling the mission to put Peter’s safety first.

Talking like he’s Peter’s father instead of just pretending to be. Talking like this whole arrangement isn’t just a means to an end. It’s always been true, but now, it’s out on the table where they can’t ignore it.  

It’s suffocating him. The implication behind it, and the terror that accompanies that implication.  

Families are fragile. Fathers are cruel. And cool aunts and uncles are bound to get killed one way or another.

When they arrive outside their building, Peter does what he’s become a natural at – he pretends. He channels his fears into anger as they march through the lobby, as he stands as far away from Tony as possible in the elevator, and Tony does them both a favor, he lets the silence reign. The doors open, sending Peter racing out of it, away from the man who’s definitely not his father, and past Pepper who’s too understanding to be his mother.

He gets a little bit of relief when he makes it into the safety of his bedroom. A room that isn’t a guest room, and before he shuts the door and lets Tony’s soundproofing take over, he hears Pepper ask Tony what’s going on. He doesn’t wait to hear his answer. He slams the door.

* * *

Ned and MJ ditch Harry.

They leave him with the shady man he’s pretty sure is an Avenger. A man who let the two of them go without any problems but insists on keeping Harry company until the family driver arrives in Queens with the car. Harry supposes it’s fair despite his qualms about accepting help from the enemy. The gun, if it had been pulled, would have been meant for him, and he suspects there’s quite a few people in Queens upset with his father.

Something about a distribution center being shut down. Harry doesn’t know the details. His brain turns off automatically when his dad starts talking about Oscorp business. It drifts into happier places, desolate worlds where it’s acceptable to shot bullets at zombies, or drifts to that creative place, where he’s able to transfer his real-life frustrations in a comic strip or cartoon. He’s not sorry about it. What can he say? Oscorp bores him. It’s a boring company, and its why Harry remains passionately pessimistic about the outlook of his future.

Life as his father’s right-hand man, those of Norman’s words, doesn’t sound like anything he’s interested in. Not even remotely. Sometimes, when he’s feeling brave, he contemplates what it would be like to disappear, really disappear, off the grid. Without his father. Without his name. Without his money. Then he remembers flying coach, and knows he’d never be able to survive.

The Osborn wealth keeps him a prisoner. Eventually, it’ll take him as a slave.

Harry looks at the man hovering next to him, close to the arcade windows, where they can keep an eye on the street. He studies him, searching for clues, evidence he’s part of the group Harry hates the most.

When research fails, it’s best to be direct.

“Are you an Avenger?”

“No.”

“Good,” says Harry.

The immediate answer proves he isn’t lying. People don’t have to think very hard when they’re telling the truth. Expressing his gratitude is beneath him, but now he’s certain the man isn’t an Avenger, he at least allows himself to feel grateful he’s not waiting it out alone in a part of the city that hates him.

“Most boys your age would jump at the change to meet an Avenger,” says the man, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah. And most people are sheep.”

“Oh yeah?” asks the man. “And do you believe all Avengers are bad because you’ve thought it out for yourself, or because that’s what your father told you to believe?”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it, thinking. It’s a good question. He’ll admit it. Just not out loud. Thinking it over, the idea of the Avengers as villains must have been planted by his dad at some point. Maybe sometime before. When Harry was young and happy and unaware his life was already planned out for him. Before he stopped listening to his father. It irritates him. He’s practically a parrot. He glares at the man who’s brought him to this conclusion. It’s all he can do.

He decides to change the subject.

“If you’re not an Avenger, you must work for Stark.” 

Harry’s attention diverts to outside, where a few young kids are playing with… rocks. Queens is a strange world, stranger still, they look like they’re having fun. These children can play with rocks, but he can’t fly coach without getting a cold. It comes back. A feeling of bravery. Of picturing himself on the streets, dollar-less, but with no responsibility.

“I’m part of Peter’s security detail.”

Harry rips his attention away from the street kids and spares at glance back at the non-Avenger.

“A bit paranoid, isn’t he? How did you find us, anyway?” asks Harry. “Did you track Peter’s phone?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying,” says Harry. “Peter ditched his phone in his locker. I remember cause I thought he was being paranoid. Guess it runs in the family.”

“We tracked _a_ phone.” 

“That’s illegal,” says Harry, then frowns. “Or at least I think it is.”

The man smiles but doesn’t get the chance to say anything back. Shattering glass causes them both to look out the window this time. A car window has been broken. There’s a mess of street kids scurrying away, and an upset man running to the side of the road where his car is parked, yelling obscenities. A few seconds later Harry’s car pulls up, stops and waits for him. He starts towards the door, but something stops him. He turns back around.

“Thanks for not letting me get shot,” says Harry.

“Anytime,” he says. “It’s Clint, by the way.”

“Harry Osborn,” he says.

They shake hands, because it’s the adult, polite thing to do, and Harry leaves, retreats into his car without saying hello to his driver and begins doing research on his phone. About the Avengers. He wants to find out something bad. He wants to find something that proves he hasn’t just been a parrot for his father’s philosophies all these years. He doesn’t. He can’t find anything that isn’t written by a journalist without a clear narrative bias, and he looks until the car arrives in front of his building.

His feet take him to his father’s office automatically, and the man doesn’t notice he’s there, has his head bowed, looking down at a stack of paper, until Harry says something.

“I skipped school today,” he tells him.

Norman doesn’t look up from his papers. He doesn’t see him. If he were to really disappear, maybe his father would see him then. Or at least see the empty space he used to occupy.

 “I’ll write you a note. Don’t make it a habit.”

“Did you know Peter has his own security detail?”

“Stark’s spawn?” asks Norman. He looks up, then continues at Harry’s nod. “Well, that’s what happens when you fly around in a metal suit destroying cities. You make enemies.” 

But that doesn’t make any sense. The gun had been for Harry, not for Peter, and it had been because of Norman. Harry sees that now. He hadn’t before. He leaves his dad’s office without another word, and sits down at his desk, staring at his computer screen. He pulls up Google, but this time he doesn’t search for Avengers stuff.

He types Oscorp Distributing and presses enter. Suddenly, the family business isn’t so boring.

* * *

Natasha steps into the Stark penthouse, looks around and spots Tony sitting at the bar sipping on something amber. She wastes no time moving across the space to him, carrying Peter’s smartwatch and cellphone with her, items she fished from the boy’s locker earlier at Tony’s request. The phone vibrates in her hand as she crosses the room and has vibrated more than a few times since retrieving it. If she were Tony, she might be tempted to invade his piracy and read the text messages, but she’s definitely not Tony and she doesn’t need to read the boy’s messages to know what’s going on with him.

It’s written all over his face every time she sees him. 

She’s seen too many fearful faces to mistake it for anything else.

“Where?”

“He’s in his room pouting,” he answers.   

She turns, proceeds to the hall that will take her to Peter’s bedroom, and Tony calls at her.

“What’re you gonna say to him?”

“Something you’re too afraid to,” she says. “The truth.”

It’s a weapon, and while Tony is unwilling and maybe unable to wield it, Nat has no problem doing so, especially when it means the difference between saving a boy and losing him forever. She’ll leave the part about Peter’s dad possibly being the scientist responsible for this whole mess to Tony. She’s heard his theories. She’s seen the creepy pictures Peter drew as a child, but that’s a truth out of her territory.

Nat doesn’t bother knocking on his door, just like Peter doesn’t bother to acknowledge her presence in his space, although she knows that he knows she’s there. He’s sitting on his couch with a throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, eyes focused on the TV screen and a controller in his hands. He doesn’t look anything like the boy she met in the dark hallway a few months ago. Sitting there like that, aggressively playing video games, wearing noticeably expensive clothes, but most of all, sulking, he looks like… Tony Stark’s son. 

Clearly, they are all doing a very good job pretending.

Moans of zombies getting slashed through with a machete fills the room. Peter’s eyes do a quick back forth between her and his game, but it doesn’t manage to affect his score. A zombie is trying to get away from him, but Peter’s reflexives translate very well in gaming. The machete slices it open. Guts fly everywhere.

“I’m not in the mood for another lecture,” he tells her. Sounds like Tony Stark’s son, and just like Tony, there’s something in his tone she doesn’t care for.

“Hey,” she says. “Turn that shit off.” 

“Can’t. Almost at a checkpoint.”

“FRIDAY kill the game.”

The TV goes blank, and Peter stares at it, controller going slack in his hand, before he releases a deep, unhappy sigh and finally gives her his attention.

“That was really uncool." 

She tosses his smartwatch first, and he watches it as it falls lamely on the couch next to him. When she throws the cellphone, he catches it effortlessly, and thumbs through it, checking his messages.

“I could say the same to you. You disappeared on us.”

“For the mission.”

“Bullshit.”

“Doesn’t matter now anyway,” says Peter. “Cause Tony is making me go back to the compound, so I guess we all have to deal with seeing Norman Osborn on the cover of Forbes for the rest of our lives.”

“More bullshit.”

Peter frowns at her, confused. “He really did say that.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she says. “Norman going free has nothing to do with why you’re sitting in here sulking about going back to the compound.”

Peter continues to frown at her, glares fire at her, and clicks the buttons on his controller repeatedly even though there’s no avatar to control.

“I’m not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed either,” he says. “In case you forgot, you’re not actually a guidance counselor.”

“I guess that’s a bonus,” she says, keeping her voice light, unbothered. Intentionally. “If I were, I wouldn’t be this good.”

A heavy silence follows, and Peter looks down, both thumbs working the joysticks. 

“Tony’s the only person in your life that’s kept his promises,” she says. “And you don’t want to leave him, because despite what you’re trying to do right now – push everyone away – you don’t actually want to be alone. You’re just afraid.” 

Peter discards the useless controller, and repositions himself on the couch, pulling the blanket wrapped around him closer. The truth hangs in the air, weighty and undeniable, accompanied only by the air conditioner kicking in, only audible because of their silence.

“I don’t blame you. Trust is scary,” she says. “And you learned that lesson when you were very young… what happened, Peter?” 

He blinks at her. No hesitation. “My whole family died, and I got kidnapped.”

“Before that.”

“Nothing,” says Peter. “There’s nothing before that.”

Nat doesn’t believe him. She doesn’t even believe he believes that, but she doesn’t push anymore. That would be edging into territory that belongs to Tony, father territory, so she backs off. Leaves him to think. Or kill dead people. Whatever the hell teenage boys do when they are scared and angry.

Tony’s head pops up from the bar when she reaches the end of the hall, asking questions without actually giving them a voice. 

“Tell him about his dad, Stark,” she says. “Lose his trust now and you’ll never get it back again.”

* * *

The sun pours down, and the rain shines, golden tears of water shattering into drops like stars as they hit the concrete floor, before dissipating completely, as if they were never really there. Peter’s clueless to why they’ve retracted the ceiling during a rainstorm, even a sunny one, but the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense to him. None of the people in charge at New Life were ever really that smart, and it doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing is getting wet.

Peter stands inside the glass prison, completely dry, despite feeling the coolness of the rain as it hits his skin, even as it hits his hair. It’s coolness without the dampness that usually follows. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and listens to the peaceful symphony the rain makes as it descends, a sound that’s forever associated with safety, with being alive, with rescue.

If he closes his eyes, he can enjoy the rain music without seeing the tragedy connected with it, but it doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. It’s a tragedy that’s his fault. He looks at it, forces himself to gaze into the center of the large room where the sheet of rain makes everything appear blurry and out of focus. In the very center of the watery blur, a man is growing larger, approaching, until Peter recognizes him.

It’s a wonderfully impossible person.

“Uncle Ben?”

His words bounce around in the room, echoing with the rain, and suddenly both his hands are pressed up against the glass. Desperate. Wanting to escape. He’s overwhelmed by a need to race across the room and see his uncle, to hug him and tell him he misses him and he’s sorry for all the bad, stupid things he’s done.

It’s something he’ll never be able to do. The glass that separates them is unbreakable.

Ben puts both hands up on the glass, matching Peter’s, and there’s light in his eyes, something Peter has missed, something absence from his life since the him and May were shot in their apartment, since the day they took Peter away and put him in this prison.

“Can you help me?”

“No. I don’t know the codes.”

“My dad knows them. You can ask him.”

Ben’s hand falls to his sides, and so does Peter’s. Both pairs of handprints are wiped away in seconds by the continuous rain.

“Peter,” says Uncle Ben. “Do you still remember? Or do you need me to remind you?" 

“Peter Benjamin…” he trails off. Scrunches up his face. At least tries to remember, although he knows the final name, the third one, is lost. Up on a shelf he’s too little to reach. Ben realizes, and his face falls, crushed and disappointed. It had been his name too. Once. When he’d been breathing.

“I c-can’t remember.”

“Can’t or won’t?" 

“Won’t.” The answer comes easy and automatic.

“Parker.”

“Parker,” he repeats.  

“Don’t forget it.”

There’s no warning for Ben disappearing. 

He melts suddenly and quickly into the raindrops. A million pieces of Ben fall to the floor, break apart and turn into glow-in-the-dark star stickers, stuck and scattered across the floor in the training room. They are patterned with sickly perfection, and if Peter could bear looking at them, he’d probably be able to point out a few constellations. He cries out for Ben to come back, but it’s muffled.

He’s back in his bed, face in his pillow and a warm hand sneezing his shoulder, trying to coax him into turning over on his back. Tony’s whisper-yell is close to his ear, telling him to wake up, telling him it’s just a dream. He doesn’t want it to be. He wants his nightmare back. He wants Ben to come back, even if it means being trapped inside the glass prison again.

“Peter, I know you’re awake now,” says Tony. His other hand grips Peter’s other shoulder, continuing his attempts to gently pry him away from the bed. “Can you at least look at me?” 

“No.”

It’s a soft, pitiful no, but Tony respects it regardless. He lets go him, and Peter feels his weight being lifted from his bed as he stands up.

“I’ll give you some space, then,” he says. “I’ll just be, uh, in the living room, when you’re ready to turn on the TV.”  

He listens as Tony’s footsteps start to fade, as his heartbeat gets further and quieter, before he springs up into a sitting position. Nat is right. She’s always right. He doesn’t want to be alone, despite being equally terrified by the alternative, and it is more than futility that keeps him from arguing with Tony about his presence after the nightmares come.

“Wait,” he says. Tony stops in his tracks and turns around. “Don’t go.”

This is an admission that feels unsafe and raw, and for a second, Peter’s taken over by a flash of panic that Tony might leave him in the dark anyway. He’d deserve it. After today. But the second passes, and Tony’s dark form moves back over towards his bed. He sits down, closer now than he’d been before, close enough, in fact, to make out his facial features.

“Your dad again?”

“No.”

A memory comes back from the place he works hard to keep locked up. There are no images, but instead, it comes in the form of a declaration he made when he’d been quite young. To never allow his dad to make him cry.

“My uncle.”

He must be both looking and sounding pretty pathetic. Tony pulls his arm around him, and he must be feeling pretty pathetic, because Peter allows him to do it. He doesn’t hug him back though, and they sit like that for a while, in a one-armed, one-sided, awkward and sloppy hug. They’re both very bad at it, but it isn’t altogether terrible. Peter appreciates the gesture, at least, and by the time Tony lets him go again, the guilt takes him by surprises. Breaks down the closet door, stronger than ever and too strong for him to push away again.

It overtakes him.

“I’m sorry I pushed that kid.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“And I’m sorry I went AWOL.”

“Kid, can’t you ever just do what you’re told?”

“Don’t send me back to the compound,”

“I’m not sending you anywhere,” says Tony. “Just… don’t do that again, or I won’t have a choice.”

Peter nods. Hopes there’s never a situation that arises that calls for him to do it again. He’s not sure his practical mind is in control one hundred percent of the time, and it’s an easy promise to make sitting here in the dark. It’s a different story in the moment.

“Gonna be able to go back to sleep?” 

Peter shakes his head. 

“We could go down to the workshop,” he suggests.

“Really?”

“Don’t get too excited,” he says. “I have some things to tell you that’s not going to be easy for you to hear.”

There’s no follow-up to his statement. He gets up from the bed, expecting Peter to follow him, and he does. He’s got an inkling he already knows at least a little bit about whatever it is Tony wants to talk to him about. He’s already had a couple unpleasant battles with the truth today. Might as well make it one more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!! Sorry if this one seemed a bit disorganized -- this chapter and last chapter were supposed to be the same chapter, if that makes sense. 
> 
> Thanks so much for everyone reading, commenting, leaving kudos, subscribing etc, you guys are soooo awesome! I'll try to get the next one out asap, shooting for Tuesday-Wednesday! See ya then or in the comments!


	16. father first

  1. father first



Peter and Tony sit at a steel metal, half-oval desk, down in the workshop. They’re both inside the curve, occupying large, black computer chairs on wheels, with a mysterious folder sitting on the surface to their side. Tony put it there before he started talking, and Peter’s been trying to keep his eyes from drifting into that direction ever since. It’s a useless struggle. He wants to know what’s inside. Another struggle entirely is keeping himself from moving the chair with his foot, swaying back and forth, and it’s even more difficult now that Tony’s done talking.

Now that Tony has spilled his secret, handed over the whole reason his real last name is dangerous, the very last thing Peter wants to do is stay still. He’s becoming increasingly aware of the fact it’s been at least several minutes since Tony finished his explanation about Richard Parker’s research. He’s staring, waiting, for a reaction. Peter doesn’t have one. Stunned with a truth he’s known all along. Wanting to bolt for the door, but knowing he’d never make it there before Tony has FRIDAY lock the room down.

He forces himself to look at Tony. Under the dim lighting in the workshop, he looks a lot like the man who wakes him up from his nightmares, instead of the fast talking arrogant one who walks around in the daylight. He stops moving the chair with his foot, and words finally leave his mouth.

“My dad did this to me?” asks Peter.

“That’s not…that’s not what I said.”

Peter knows that, but he can also remember his nightmares in painstaking detail. The further he gets in time from being trapped in the facility, the more he remembers about his father, about his family, no matter how hard he fights to keep the memories away. They’re traveling faster than speed of light, and they’re not at all that far removed anymore. One day, he suspects they will hit him with a force that will flattened him and the walls he’s carefully constructed in his mind completely. That day is unavoidable, but he wants to put it off as long as possible.

“Just that they used his research on cross genetics,” says Tony. “There’s no evidence to support he agreed with how his theories were tested.”

Just his nightmares. That’s hardly evidence. Despite Peter’s fears that his nightmares are made up from hellish bits of reality.

“Then there’s no evidence to support he didn’t agree, either,” says Peter. The image of the man-monster shoving a needle into a crying boy’s arm while a woman stands by and sings lullabies is still fresh in his mind. A monster wearing his father’s face. 

“No…” says Tony. His words are slow. Careful. “There’s not. Maybe you can clear it up for us, though. What can you tell me about him?”

 “I… don’t know, really. He wasn’t around much. He was busy. With work,” says Peter. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth now he knows what kind of work it had been. A random memory springs to mind. “Once he helped me put star stickers on my ceiling.”

It’s not at all the kind of information Tony is looking for. Peter can tell by his expression, but it’s the first scene to play out in his mind. Being small. Sitting on his bed and watching his dad up on a ladder, concentrating hard. Maybe he’s hanging onto this one because the memory stands in contrast to his nightmares. A cruel monster-father doesn’t help their kids with stickers, right?

Or maybe the memory stands out for a different reason. 

“It took hours.”

“That sounds nice, Peter,” says Tony, at least having the decency genuine. He puts his hand on the folder, bringing it back to Peter’s attention. He pushes it towards him. “I found this while I was investigating.”

He looks down at the folder. It’s black and papery, with tears at the edges, old, and he’s no longer interested by what’s inside. More like dread. Fear. He’s already been presented with evidence his father might be closer to the man from his nightmares than the man he remembers putting stickers on the ceiling. He ignores it, puts focus back on Tony and does the only thing he thinks might work, distract.

“So, basically you’re saying my dad was like the scientists on Jurassic Park,” says Peter, his voice coming out high-pitched, and fast. He drums his fingers across the cold, sleek steel. “You know, too caught up in whether or not he could, he forgot to stop and think if he should.”

“Are you seriously making a pop culture reference right now?” asks Tony. His face twitches, trying to fight off his amusement, but there’s a hint of a smile giving him away. “This is supposed to be a serious moment.”

Peter shrugs, works up an interesting rhythm with his fingers, until Tony bumps them with the edge of the folder and he loses the beat.

“What’s in there?”

“Photos,” says Tony. “Of you and your parents. Some pictures you drew when you when younger.”

He gives it a critical look, then withdraws his hand from the desk, gripping the armrest on his chair instead. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to look at those?”

He shakes his head. Just being in Queens yesterday loosened the walls in his mind, allowed some things to slip through, and he didn’t like it. He doesn’t want to ruin homemade birthday cake and star stickers with the truth, even though he suspects, or even knows it’s out there. He rather believe Tony’s kind, sugar-coated explanation is true, one where his father had just been a smart man with dangerous theories, who crossed paths with the wrong sort of people. 

But the truth is out there. It whispers in the silence. Looking at those pictures might cause them to shout through the noise. 

Peter falls under Tony’s scrutiny, and he can practically hear the gears in his head working, trying to figure him out. Eventually, he slips the folder back into his own reach, slides it aside under a stack of messy papers and they forget all about it. They move on to more important things, like tinkering around with and improving Peter’s web-shooter designs. Passing tools back and forth. Only talking when it’s about their project. It’s fresh air, and it feels like they’re back at the compound, when Peter had still been sad, but it hadn’t yet been made worse with real-life things, like heavy names and lies and fighting with his own brain. 

It’s quiet until Tony begins his pestering. He’s perplexed and bothered by what he keeps referring to as the one-handed Spiderling dilemma, and once he starts urging him to make another web-shooter, they’re stuck on the topic for what seems like an hour. His attempts to convince him fall on deaf ears. He shrugs him off. Getting more and more annoyed each time it’s brought up, until Tony’s persistence wears thin and he stops bothering him about it.

When it’s nearly morning, nearly time for normal and well-adjusted people to begin waking up and getting ready for the day, Tony suggests they head to the kitchen and make breakfast for Pepper. Peter agrees. He’s got a guilty conscience. He’s the reason her fiancé leaves her almost every night. Him and his trauma. Besides that, exhaustion and hunger are setting in. He doesn’t know how much longer it’d be possible for him to continue in the workshop if he tried.

“Pancakes?” suggests Peter, once they’re standing in the middle of the kitchen. 

“Perfect.” 

A giant silver mixing bowl is pushed into Peter’s stomach until he grabs hold of it and places it on the table. He climbs up on a stool, and Tony passes him first a mixing spoon, then the ingredients, sometimes after minutes of searching for them in the cabinets. Peter mixes them together, and he’s focused on that. The repetitive stirring of flour and sugar and milk relaxes him. Makes him even more aware that it’s breakfast time and he’s barely slept. His eyes grow heavy, his breathing slows down.

He doesn’t see Tony coming.

One second he’s stirring breakfast, the next Tony jumps at him, clasps his hand around Peter’s left wrist, causing him to yelp in surprise and fling himself backwards off the stool. As he does, the wooden spoon catches the bowl, and so when Peter falls on the floor, Tony not far behind as he refuses to release his wrist and loses his own balance, pancake mix falls on both of them. They sit for the floor in the kitchen, covered in pancake batter, Peter glaring at Tony and yanking his wrist free, using every bit of his spider strength just to prove a point. 

Peter examines it. Makes sure his wrist isn’t hurt, before his glare returns to Tony. 

“Don’t do that again.”

Tony looks irritatingly unapologetic. He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t work so hard to save that hand from Natasha for you not to use it.”

“I use it,” says Peter. “I just don’t want anything _on_ it.”

“What’s going on in here?”

Pepper stands on the kitchen’s edge, dressed and ready for her day at work, with amusement etched across her face.  

Tony and Peter speak at the same time.

“Tony attacked me.”

“We’re making breakfast.”

Pepper shakes her head and laughs quietly. Under her supervision, they start a new round of pancake mix while she sits at the table, laptop out and business face on. This time goes a lot smoother, and in what seems like only minutes, they’re eating pancakes together at the kitchen table. Pepper finishes hers fast, compliments them by saying it was actual edible, and stands to leave the table, dusting dried pancake batter from Peter’s hair as she grabs her bag and disappears into the elevator.

He sighs, realizing that’s his cue to rinse off his own plate, throw it in the dishwasher, and head back to his room to get ready for his day. After barely any sleep.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asks Tony. He stands up from the table, tilts his head at him. “You can’t ditch me to clean up this mess by myself.”

“Well, it is your mess,” says Peter. He nods towards the clock on the stoves. “It’s almost time for school.”

“I’m keeping you home today.”

“Oh.”

There’s no room for arguments in his statement, and even if there were, Peter doesn’t know if he has the energy to argue or make it through the school day. It’s a relief, to stay at the penthouse and sleep the morning away. A gift. He doesn’t admit it to Tony. Doesn’t want the man to think he’s okay with being locked away indoors and missing school. He might get a few ideas. 

“Steve’s coming into the city,” he says. “Wants to take you out for lunch.” 

Peter frowns, begins to open his mouth to protest, but Tony cuts him off.

“He’s not going to kidnap you and take you back to the compound. Sometimes people want to hang out just because they like the company.” He stops, looks at Peter, who blinks back at him. “I know, I don’t get it either, but there it is.”

Peter keeps his distance from Tony as they clean up the pancake mess, keeping his guard up so he’s not harassed and forced to confront his fears a second time in one morning. Tony doesn’t try anymore tricks, but Peter doesn’t know if it’s because he’s respecting his request, or if he knows he won’t get away with it again anytime soon. Once they’re done, they camp out in the living, neither of them bothering to change their clothes.

Tony turns on something on the TV, sets the volume on low, and Peter wraps himself into a giant blanket. There’s no more talk about Peter’s dad, he wouldn’t entertain it for long if Tony attempted it anyway, and there’s no more talk about whatever pictures are inside the folder he refuses to open. They don’t talk about anything. His thoughts fade in and out about trust and what it means to have a home and how he really does, deep down in a place only accessible when to him when sleep is near, appreciate Tony’s efforts with trying to help him with his wrist.

* * *

Harry blames Peter for his current circumstances.

If Peter would have shown up for school, he knows for sure he wouldn’t be sitting in an uncomfortable chair outside the principal’s office with a black-eye, holding up a cold pack, while his father yells at Morita on the other side of the wall. He’s trying to think up a good lie, one that doesn’t make the story of his black-eye so pathetic, but he’s drawing a blank. It’s worthless. There were too many eye-witnesses, and he’s sure by now the whole school has heard the story. 

It’s not a heroic one, like Peter standing up for Ned and putting Flash in his place, but a selfish one. Flash has an irritating voice. One he can normally block out and ignore, when it’s not directed at him, however, it had been directed at him. Something about Norman, and Harry may not be heroic like Peter, but they find common ground in being tactless. Words left his mouth before he could stop them. He’s proud of the result. It had been a particularly well-crafted one-liner, before Flash tripped and he fell face first into the side of an opened locker, rather ungracefully.

Harry shifts in his chair, stomach sinking with both panic and dread, at the sight of Tony Stark invading the otherwise empty office waiting room, if it could be called a room. Harry thinks it’s more like a waiting-hallway. He presses the cold pack further against his face, hoping it’s enough to disguise him, and it works, for a bit. Stark doesn’t seem to see him as he looks around with a scowl, before finally accepting the plastic chairs are the only seats around. He sits down, obviously displeased with the situation, before his eyes land on Harry.

“How’s the other guy look?” asks Stark.

Harry has not yet thought of a good lie to tell, so he shrugs, but it’s an awkward one. His shoulders are tense, and now it’s more than the chair making him uncomfortable. He’s stuck in a room with his father’s biggest enemy.

“Relax, alright?” says Stark, leaning back. “I’m not going to take it out on some helpless kid that his father’s an asshole.” 

Harry goes blank-faced. Normally he’d at least try to defend his dad, that’s what landed him here in the first place, but Stark makes him nervous and he’s not feeling overly fond of Norman Osborn himself at the moment. He’s anticipating the argument they’re about to have. The one where he gets blamed for being pushed into a locker and laughed at.

“The other guy is back in class, and I’m stuck here,” says Harry. “So I guess he’s doing better than me.”

“Same kid my son got into with?”

Harry nods. “He’s annoying, and he’s got a loud mouth.” 

“Doesn’t sound like he’s worth Peter’s time,” says Stark. “Or yours.”

“It’s like a fly buzzing in your ear, Mr. Stark. You can only ignore it for so long. And Peter’s not here today, so he’s feeling particularly loud.”

Stark opens his mouth but is cut off by the Norman opening the door and emerging from the Morita’s office. Harry deflates under his father’s harsh stare, mentally prepares himself to be berated in front of Iron Man, but the reprimanding doesn’t come. Looking back up with his one good eye, Harry follows Norman gaze back to Stark. He should have known. Even in situations like these, he never has his dad’s complete attention.

“I find it interesting,” says Norman, slow and dangerous. “You’ve chosen to send your child to the same school as mine. Some might think it’s a competition. Throw them both into the same ring and see who makes it out victorious.” 

“Not everything’s a conspiracy, Osborn,” says Stark, leaning back in the chair, somehow assertive and intimidating without the higher ground. “Just a good school and a couple of smart kids.”

Harry isn’t prepared for Norman when he grabs him by his arm and yanks him up from the chair, but he manages to find his footing regardless. He doesn’t dare look back at Tony Stark on their way out, and it isn’t until they turn the corner and enter a new hallway that his dad begins his questioning.

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing,” says Harry. He pulls his arm away. “We’re just talking about Flash.”

Norman observes him as if he’s trying to detect the hint of a lie. “I don’t want you hanging around the Stark boy anymore. He’s obviously a bad influence on you.”

“If I didn’t go to this school, I wouldn’t have to hang around him.”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” says Norman, and as they both turn to continue down the hallway, they see Ms. Mullens, the strange guidance counselor, watching them.

She doesn’t even try to pretend that’s what she’d been doing. Eavesdropping. On a private a conversation. Harry, along with Norman, give her identical glares as they move past, but Harry realizes she’s not paying him any attention. Her and his father seem to be having a battle with their eyes, and he might as well not even be in the hall with them.

* * *

“What’s the deal with you and food?”

Peter’s been expecting this question. He’s already answered it once with Tony, another time with Clint after he questioned the man about the exact location of a donut shop, and a third time, with Pepper. He tried to ignore the way Steve watched as he carefully picked up his pizza slice, supported with both hands after discovering using just one was hazardous if he wanted the toppings to stay put, and hesitantly took a single bite, before washing it down with a large drink from his Dr. Pepper.

The taste test went well, though, and Peter did eventually devour his piece, as well as three others, once he was certain the food was safe, and now, completely full and totally awake, well rested even, after the morning of sleep, he sits with an empty plate in front of him.

“My mom used to say you shouldn’t eat anything if you can’t see the hands that prepared it,” says Peter, and his response surprises even him. Out of all the times he’s been asked, he’s never answered it that way before.

He sinks in his chair. It’s the truth. She did used to say that all the time. So much so, Peter can practically hear his mom saying it, as they walked by bakeries and fast food restaurants with cartoon mascots to entice children to want to eat there. It’s a loose memory, and it’s tainted with something bad. It’s slipped through, broken free, and it causes a flash of terror when he worries how many more of them will follow.

Maybe Tony’s started a process that cannot be reserved.

“I see you and Tony eat take-out all the time.”

“That’s different,” says Peter. “Have you seen how much he spends on food?”

Steve finishes wiping his hands on a napkin, then lets it rest on his plate. “And you think money buys cleanliness?”

“Why wouldn’t it? It buys everything else.” 

Peter really has no idea if this is true. Maybe it’s something Tony told him near the beginning to get him to eat whatever he ordered for them, or maybe it’s something he told himself, justification similar to what he used to get by when he had to survive on New Life’s food. He’s not sure. All those days blur together, but he’s not fond with Steve poking holes the methods he’s using to trick his brain into eating potentially unsafe food. He’s not sure how it works. There’s no logic in fear. Some things he can tolerate eating despite their origins if he can think of a good way to explain it, to trick himself, but other items are out of the question.

Like food from the cafeteria at school. Like the time Tony tried to make him eat something questionable looking for their favorite late-night diner.

“You really do spend too much time around Tony,” says Steve, with a good-natured laugh, one that makes Peter relax in his chair instead of getting defensive.

By the time they exit the pizzeria, Peter is bouncing with energy, ready and excited to be not stuck in a desk or in his bedroom. 

“Where are we going now?”

“I’m taking you back home,” says Steve.

“But,” says Peter. He stops in his tracks on the sidewalk, and a woman who almost runs into him gives him side-eyes as she passes. “I don’t want to go back to the penthouse yet.” 

Steve stops and turns to look at him. “Where do you want to go?”

“I dunno. I just want to be outside.

He sighs, but Captain America won’t tell him no. He pities him. The orphan him and his team found in a research facility. It’s not in the same way Tony pities him. Tony’s pity causes him to double-down, to enforce rules and protect. Steve’s pity causes him to cave. Peter’s ready and willing to take advantage of it. It pays off. Steve agrees to take him to park to walk around for a little bit before heading back to the penthouse.

Peter counts that as a win.

Central Park is fresh and vibrant, filled with ordinary people with ordinary lives, or other words, people Peter envies. Old couples, young couples, a few families with children too young to attend school. Makes him wonder if he ever came here with his parents. If he had, he doesn’t remember it, so he shuts the thought down right away, before it gains momentum on him. It’s getting harder to make them stop, but he manages it.

As they approach the edge of a pond, Peter sheds his jacket and looks down. His reflection stares back up at him. Thoughts about his parents reemerge, he’s powerless to stop them, and he wonders which of his parents he looks like the most. Or if that even matters at all anymore. 

“My dad was a bad person,” says Peter, informing Steve as if he’s commenting on the weather. He’s completely aware that it’s an awkward, random sentence to just blurt out, but he needs to test it out. To say it out loud to see if it sounds true. After the words settle, he feels worse. Not only do they sound true, it sounds like something he’s said before. 

“Tony told me about that,” says Steve. “He also said he doesn’t know how involved he was. He might have a been a very good person, who made some very bad decisions.”

“Is there a difference?”

“I think so,” says Steve. His gaze goes somewhere beyond the pond, to the shady trees on the other side, and the water ripples with a breeze. “Others may disagree.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but Peter is one of those people. He’s come to accept the idea that things aren’t always just one way or another, that sometimes people can be both right and wrong at the same time, when sticky and tricky things like motives are considered, but people are not things. It’s not possible to be both good and bad at the same time. Peter rejects this idea entirely. It isn’t possible for someone who tortures kids to have good in them. It isn’t possible for someone to torture kids and be a good father.

* * *

“Tony.”

His head snaps up from piles of disjointed spare parts, and the screw driver falls from his hand. Peter is standing just a few feet away from the desk in his workshop, the same one they had their conversation earlier that morning, dressed in his pajamas and wearing an expression Tony has yet to see from him. It’s odd behavior for the boy to seek him out, and anything strange or unusual automatically makes Tony suspicious something is wrong, especially after Peter’s lack of reaction to the news about his father.

“Hey, Pete,” says Tony. He acts like everything is fine. Like his suspicious does not exist. “Did you have fun with Cap?”

“Sure.”

Peter joins him behind the desk, throwing himself down in the empty chair next to him, and bringing his feet up to rest on it too. His face is barely visible behind his knees, leaving Tony to suspect that’s Peter’s intention. To hide. 

“Are you… doing okay?”

“I… remembered something… about my dad,” he says. “It’s like I remember more and more every day, and I don’t want to.”

“It might help with the nightmares,” says Tony. His eyes move over to where he stored the pictures of Peter and his family. “Might help you move on.”

Peter picks some lent from the fabric of his pajamas and doesn’t look at him, doesn’t offer any more words, while Tony debates on what to do. Get the pictures back out. Leave them be. He decides on the option least likely to scare the boy away. 

“What did you remember?”

“Nothing could be out of place,” says Peter, and when Tony frowns in confusion, he elaborates. “With the stickers on my ceiling. It had to be perfect, like he had this diagram with all the constellations and their positions and they all had to match just right. I asked my mom if he was crazy, and she said he wasn’t, he’s was just obsessed.”

“Alright, so he got a little obsessed with things, doesn’t make him a monster.”

“If he wasn’t I would want to remember, and if he wasn’t that makes me the bad one because I forgot all about them. I barely even know what they look like -”

“You do remember some things – “

“-I used to remember the good things, but now all I remember are the bad ones.”

“Peter,” says Tony. Trying to get a grip on this conversation. Trying not to freak out because the boy’s starting to freak out and he doesn’t know how to comfort a distressed teenager. “Look, you aren’t a bad person. Nowhere close. You’ve had a very hard life, and when you were trapped in… that place, your mind did whatever it could to survive, but you’re not there anymore and it’s time to remember.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

Next time Tony sees Bucky he owes him a big I-told-you-so. The boy sitting next to him, looking miserable and worn out, is nowhere near ready to look at old family photos and reminisce. This morning he thought maybe he should force him. Now he’s glad he didn’t.

“Pepper said it might help if I tell you my dad wasn’t exactly winning awards for being father of the year,” says Tony, hoping to lighten the mood, maybe change the subject. It’s clear the path they’re on now isn’t productive. At least not yet.

Peter brings his knees down and sits properly. “No offense, but I kind of figured out that one on my own.”

“Oh really?” asks Tony. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Thought I could just stay down here with you.”

Tony should probably be responsible. Send him back up to bed, but he’s not sure he can do it with a clear conscience. And there’s an opportunity here. One Tony can’t pass up. 

“Okay. But you’re working on your second web-shooter,” says Tony. He reclaims his screwdriver and points it at Peter, who’s about to set his face into a sulky expression. “It’s that, or bed. Your choice." 

“Fine. But I’m not putting it on.”

“Whatever you say, kid.”

Eventually, he’s going to get him to relent on that one too.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!! I can't believe I've written 16 chapters of this. That seems crazy to me cause it feels like I just started it and even crazier there's only 7 chapters left, probably. 
> 
> Thanks so much for everyone reading, giving kudos, subscripting or bookmarking. And as always, you guys are always so great in the comments!! 
> 
> I'm shooting to get the next one out Saturday night, but if not then, Monday night! See ya then, or in the comments!


	17. crying about mothers

  1. crying about mothers



It’s a Sunday night when Tony drops into Peter’s bedroom unannounced, without knocking, but of course, Peter’s used to this. He’s stopped complaining about it. Rather than waste his breath, he watches Tony from where he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by textbooks, his laptop and a few different worksheets. Tony marches forward towards the balcony, slides the glass door open, filling the room with a slightly chilled breeze that slices through Peter’s hair, and looks back at him, expectedly.

He truly doesn’t know what type of reaction Tony is looking for, doesn’t know if the man thinks he’ll run and jump from the ledge as soon as it’s accessible to him, if this is some sort of ill-conceived test. He keeps his eyes on Tony while he taps his pencil against the hard surface of his algebra book, watching and waiting for Tony to break the silence and speak first.

“I uninstalled the baby-gate protocol.”

“Really?” Peter perks up, and the pencil slides through his fingers, before he slinks back down with a groan. “That’s what you were calling it?”

“Got a better name?”

“Literally anything else that doesn’t make me sound like an infant.” 

Tony smirks at him, leans against. the open door and cross his arms. “Help me out here, what would you call a young child with the tendency to unwittingly wander away from safety and into unknown danger?” 

Peter returns his attention to his homework. He refuses to dignify his comment with a response, and also, because he’s really behind on his schoolwork. The weekend flew by faster than he expected it to, a steady stream of him and Tony in the workshop, chatting with Ned over various gaming networks while they teamed up and quietly watching Netflix on the laptop Tony built for him in his bed, fading in and out of sleep. Weekends are rest, for Peter at least, until Sunday night approaches and homework demands his attention.

Homework. It’s strangely normal, and something Peter never imagined from his small room in the research facility he’d ever have to worry about.

His algebra worksheet gets snatched out from under his pencil, and examined by Tony, who’s shut the balcony door and is now standing over him. “You got number four wrong.” 

“What? No I didn’t,” says Peter. He takes his paper back, irritated by the random line now streaking the worksheet that he’ll have to erase later, but doesn’t need to check number four. He knows it’s correct, knows Tony is just messing with him. 

“Yeah, you’re right. I was testing your confidence. You pass.” 

Peter rolls his eyes, then finds them staring through the glass again, as the implication of Tony’s original statement sinks through all of his trolling and catches up with him. He’s hit with conflicting emotions, both happy and worried, all at the same time.

“You really deleted it?”

“Yeah, I’m trusting you,” says Tony. “I… I don’t want you feeling like you’re trapped anymore. This is your home, and I know it will take a while for you to feel like it is, but maybe this will help.”

It’s more than happy. This emotion. Earning Tony’s trust feels oddly better than the brief rush of freedom skipping school provided, or even the breath of fresh air he’d gotten the night he climbed out his window back at the compound, although the memory of that particular escape is forever ruined by being dragged around by Bucky. He wars with himself, whether or not he’s actually earned this trust, or if Tony’s just pities him, before he remembers Tony is not manipulated by pity. 

Not in the same way others are.

His fear is also amplified. It’s magnified by a knowing. There’s something broken. Something inside him that shattered into a million pieces the day he woke up with a black tracking bracelet on his wrist that wouldn’t come off and jammed in a world of adults who would use him as a lab rat. It’s a cracked, crumpling dark hole that overrides his control, corrupts any logic. He wants to stay in his room. Wants to keep Tony’s trust, but trust is scary both ways. It’s a fragile thing, and Peter, at least not right now, doesn’t have a steady grip.

“But what if…” Peter trails off, struggling to put his fears into words. “What if I go…?”

“You won’t,” says Tony. His response is immediate. “Because if you do, you’ll go back to the compound and you’ll be on lockdown until we get that place shutdown, and I know the threat of that is enough to keep you where you’re supposed to be.”

Just a medium trust, then. A different kind of lock on a door.

It’s enough to dose his worry, and Tony’s confidence calms him down, though his happiness isn’t tampered with. It sticks around, knowing the balcony door will be unlocked, and it still feels like a victory. Like him and Tony are crossing some sort of finish line, because he’s no longer being held by physical things like locks and protocols, but by invisible attachments that somehow seem stronger than anything material.

Tony leaves him to his homework with a half-smile and a squeeze on his shoulder, and Peter waits a good five minutes before jumping up from his bed and rushing out onto the balcony. He ignores the way the chilled air bites at his arms, relishing in the night, the city beneath him and all the stars above him, even though from here they refuse to be seen. He soaks up the night until his nose starts to get runny, than returns to his homework and erases the annoying, forced line across the page with a smile.

* * *

“Happy, please.”

“You know the rules.”

Peter gives the man a dramatic sigh. “It’s only fifteen minutes.”

“Do you want to be the one to explain that to Tony?”

“Sure.”

They lock eyes through the rearview mirror, as the debate continues, as the car stalls, outside of Midtown. Freedom is tricky and addictive, and after last night’s small victory on the balcony, he’s ready for another taste. If only he can get the great Happy Hogan to relent, to let him out of the vehicle a miserable fifteen minutes early and drive away. He’s surprisingly stubborn, and Peter still can’t tell if it’s because he’s afraid of Tony, or if it’s his own sheer force of will.

“He doesn’t have to find out,” Peter tries. “We could be on the same team, you know.”

“Is that meant to be ironic?” 

Peter deflates as he comes to the realization that this isn’t going his way. He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes has turned into twelve. He steals another look at Happy, and he recalculates his plan.

“I guess I should be used to it by now,” he says. He puts his head up against the window, for effect, because Happy knows him well enough now to know that’s what he does when he’s upset. “I’ve been in prison since I’ve been nine.” 

A few silent seconds tick by before Happy lets out some sort of growl, but it’s a winning one. It’s followed by the clicking of the child safety lock.

“Thanks, Happy!”

Peter has the door open and is sprinting away from the car with his bookbag in hand before he can change his mind. He resolves to stay outside until the twelve, now ten minutes, are up. He finds a tree, throws his bookbag down and takes a seat on the ground, leaning his back against the tree’s truck. He imagines the appalled expression on Tony’s face if he caught him sitting in the dirt when there were perfectly good benches nearby, and smiles, because Tony won’t catch him sitting in the dirt. No disapproving, micromanaging, adult will. He’s free from supervision.

At least for ten more minutes. 

“Why are you sitting on the ground?”

His smile falters as he looks up at Harry. The blackeye Tony told him about is healing nicely, but the rest of Harry seems worn. Dark circles. Tired eyes. There’s a foam Starbucks cup in his hand, and his shirt is improperly buttoned. This is what Peter must have looked like on the day of orientation, when he stood with Tony and Happy as they picked him apart in the elevator, and Peter is tempted to tell Harry he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week but stops himself. He’s learning to control his tongue. Sometimes. In these moments that matter, when he’s trying to win a friend.

“Dunno, felt like it, I guess,” says Peter.

Harry pulls a face, but after what looks like a great mental struggle, he lowers himself to ground and sits with Peter. He puts his coffee in the grass, makes sure it’s secure before letting go of it and puts his bookbag aside. He shifts around, obviously uncomfortable, but at least trying to be.

“I want you to teach me how to fight,” he says.

Peter doesn’t have to ask Harry where his sudden interest is coming from. He’s got a spark in his eye, the spark of someone who’s been pushed around one too many times and is ready to start pushing back. Norman. The loser at the arcade. Flash. And speaking of Flash, Peter’s eyes drift in his direction. He’s standing with a few of his buddies by the school’s entrance, talking and laughing, very normal things Peter feels bullies like Flash shouldn’t have. Not if he can’t have them.

“Sure,” says Peter, then remembers. “Oh yeah, uh, I’m umm not really supposed to go anywhere except school, though.”

“Grounded?”

“Yeah.” Grounded sounds more socially acceptable than protective custody, so he rolls with it.

“How long?”

“…indefinitely.”

“Just for skipping school? Harsh.”

Peter fights to control his tongue again. He wants to tell Harry it’s Norman who technically threw down this sentencing. It’s something he repeats to himself over and over again, picturing the night Tony shoved the biography at him, because it stops resentment for Tony and his rules from creeping in and taking over and causing him to do something extremely stupid.

“What about you? Are you in trouble?”

“No. Dad doesn’t care,” says Harry. Nonchalant. It’s the way Harry typically speaks, but Peter catches an edge underneath. Something he notes so he can exploit it to his advantage later on.

“Come over to my place, then.”

“Okay.”

“Just okay?” asks Peter. “Last time I invited you over you said no cause you’re afraid of Iron Man.” 

“I wasn’t afraid.” He’s cool, collected, and Peter wishes he could make his own voice sound that way when he’s getting defensive. “And I changed my mind. Maybe the Avengers aren’t all bad.”

Tony had told Peter about his brief conversation with Harry outside the principal’s office, right after he bragged to him about getting him out of serving detention for skipping school, but the way he explained it hadn’t made it sound like anything life-changing. Certainly not something to shake someone’s entire worldview, which means Harry holds a different reason for his changed perspective. Peter wants to get to the bottom of it. 

“After school?”

Harry nods and the bell rings, signifying the end of Peter’s twelve minutes of independence. He pushes himself to his feet, Harry does the same, and they march onwards into school together, catching Flash pretending not to look at them as they pass him by.

It isn’t until he sits down, and class begins that he realizes he has a problem. He has no idea how to teach someone how to fight. Sure, he knows how to fight, has been trained by both specialists at New Life and then Steve, who by all accounts is a much better teacher, but he suspects he wouldn’t be very good at hand-to-hand combat without his super strength and explaining this to Harry seems like a very bad idea.

He stews on this problem, tries to work a way around it, ignores his teachers in every class until lunch arrives, where MJ, who’s sitting exactly three seats away with a different book this time, _Where Things Come Back_ , gives him an idea.

“Do you guys think Ms. Mullens is in the CIA?” She doesn’t bother looking up from the book. She turns the page. 

“Umm, no?” Peter answers. Both Ned and Harry tilt their heads, watches as Nat walks by their table, deliberating. Peter doesn’t stick around long enough to hear their thoughts. He mutters something about the bathroom, being right back, before heading to Nat’s office. 

He throws her door open, hoping to startle her, but she’s the same as always, perfectly still and perched behind her desk. Her normally blank expression is unamused instead of empty. A change, but one Peter doesn’t think will work in his favor.

“Another fight?”

“No,” he says, breathless and dramatic. He collapses in the chair he’s becoming way too familiar with. “Just need some advice.”

“Last time we spoke you seemed to think you were above advice.”

“I’m always above unsolicited advice,” says Peter, then quickly adds, “I’m kidding.”

Nat stares at him, still unamused and uncharmed. 

“I’m sorry I acted like a jerk?”

“Better.” She looks at him, up and a down, and a curious expression replaces her annoyed one. “You seem to be in a good mood today.”

“Yeah. So listen, Harry wants me to teach him how to fight – “

“-why?”

“He wants to take down Flash,” says Peter. “And I can’t do it because that’s not a fair fight… what? You said find a more creative way to deal with him.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m getting closer to Harry, and he’s learning how to defend himself, everyone wins.”

Nat studies him and folds her hands together on top of her desk. “Get to the advice part of this conversation.”

“Oh yeah, I have no idea how to teach someone to fight without having, you know, powers, so if you could just give me some pointers how regular people learn… yeah.”

“No,” says Nat. “No way am I getting involved in a high school revenge plot.”

“I’ll just ask Clint, then.”

“He’s on the farm,” says Nat. “Visiting his family.” 

“Oh.”

She sends him back to lunch without any help, but by the time he gets there, the bell rings and he’s shuffled off to his next class, his thought consumed by what it must be like for Clint and his family to never be able to see each other. He can’t imagine what it must be like for his family to be alive, but not with him. Makes him feel incredibly guilty. As if it’s his fault, though he’s sure this has been Clint’s situation long before Peter crashed into the Avengers’ lives. 

The last bell of the day sounds off, and Peter and Harry spend fifteen minutes on the sidewalk outside of school waiting for Happy to pick them up. Harry complains. Tells him his father would fire a driver if they were even a second late, but Peter views his lateness for what it actually is, both a gift and a peace-offering, although he’s aware he deserves neither.

* * *

“So, um,” says Peter. He’s standing across from Harry, both boys occupying the empty space in the middle of Peter’s bedroom, and both shuffling their feet around, awkwardly. “Just make a fist like this… no, not like _that,_ you’ll just hurt yourself…”

Harry reconfigures his hand a few more times, but ultimately resorts back to tucking his thumb inside his fist, the only thing Peter knows for sure he shouldn’t be doing. This whole experience, this whole situation gives him insight just on how little he knows about combat, how much he relies on his powers and shouldn’t. Nat and Clint are strong despite not having any at all, Peter’s only strong because of them, and it’s the first time he’s considering there’s more skill in fighting than just haphazardly throwing strength around, like the idiots at New Life taught him, or rage-induced punches, which overtook any advice Steve tried to give him at the compound.

He wonders if he could convince any of the Avengers to give him lessons, if Tony would even allow it if he did.

Peter’s door opens, and Tony, of course, it on the other side, saving him from this awkward, mess of a situation, by bursting into his room and stopping in the doorway to stare at them.

“I didn’t know you were having company today…” says Tony, and Peter tries to apologize with just a look. A quick text would have done the job, a warning maybe, that his enemy’s son would be invading their space. Communication is hard, especially when there are so many lies and fake identities flying around.

“Harry had to come over here,” says Peter, thinking fast. “Because I’m grounded, remember?”

“Oh right,” says Tony. He walks deeper into Peter’s bedroom, to join them. “What are you guys up to… just standing in the middle of the room?”

“I’m trying to teach Harry how to fight…”

Harry’s head turns to Peter sharply, obviously confused and worried by Peter’s admittance of the truth. It’s one thing Peter knows Tony won’t care about. Training in skilled hand-to-hand combat is one thing, simply knowing enough for self-defense is another. 

“This have to do with the pest problem?” Tony directs this to Harry, who isn’t ready for the attention. His eyes dart between Peter and Tony, before the former realizes he isn’t going to get an answer and moves on. “Okay. Let’s see how good of a teacher Peter is. Hit me.”

Harry steps backwards. Horrified. And Peter doesn’t blame him. He’d also be horrified if Tony demanded for him to hit him, at least back when they were strangers.  

“I can’t hit you, Mr. Stark.”

“Why not? It’d probably make your father proud.” 

“That’s more of a reason not to do it…”

Tony gives Peter a pointed look, snaps his fingers at him and beckons to the space in front of him. With a sigh and dragged feet, Peter moves to where Tony indicated.

“Okay, watch me. Hold your fist like this. Good. Then wind back – “

Peter jumps backwards. “You’re going to hit me?!?”

“Not for real, genius,” says Tony. “Get back over here.”

He stomps back over to Tony, clutches his left wrist in case he gets any funny ideas, and braces himself to be used as a practice dummy as Tony demonstrates the punch. His fist comes fast, but he stops before it lands, a mere inch or so away from Peter’s face. He’s still cringing with expectance, and this makes it easy for Tony to catch him off guard with a push, causing him to stumble backwards.

“Hey!”

“Push him to create distance after the punch, so you can get the hell out of there before he can punch back,” says Tony, completely ignoring Peter. “Wanna try it on me?” 

“No, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Mr. Stark.”

Tony and Harry stare at each other for a couple of long seconds, before Tony grabs Peter by both of his shoulders. He tries to shrug the man off, half-heartedly, only to make the appearance he’s objecting as he’s being pushed forward in front of Harry.

“You can practice on Peter,” he tells him. “He makes an excellent stunt dummy.”

Tony’s hands come away from his shoulders, one messes up his hair before as Peter bats it away, and then he leaves them alone.

Peter waits until the door is closed and he’s sure Tony is gone before saying, “Sorry about him. He thinks he’s cool.”

Harry shrugs. “Could be worse.”

He doesn’t need Harry’s to point that out to him. His repressed memories are perfectly capable of relying that message. 

They begin practicing, now they have something to practice and Harry has stopped tucking his thumb inside his fist, and the awkwardness goes away. Harry hits and pushes him, over and over again, until his right hand becomes too sore to continue and they decide to call it a quits, planning to pick it back up the next day.

Harry heads to the living area of the room to collect his bookbag.

“You don’t have to go home yet,” says Peter. “We could you know, like, hangout. Play games or watch Netflix or whatever.”

Harry’s eyes trail over the entertainment system and TV, lingering over the gaming systems and eventually, staying there. “You have a nice setup.”

“Yeah. My dad goes overboard on everything… wanna play?”

Just seconds later, both of them are sitting on the floor, staring up at the screen with controllers in hand. Names like Stark and Osborn are forgotten, even the mission is forgotten, and it’s so easily replaced by the better, more fun missions in the game when it’s set on multiplayer mode. Time is lost, so it’s a complete shock to both of them when Pepper’s voice is calling them through the intercom, telling them it’s time for dinner.

Harry is invited to stay, of course, and he does.

A routine is formed, and a few weeks pass by like a few days. Harry comes over after school more days than he doesn’t, they practice punches, do homework, if there’s any to be done, and then it’s straight to Zombie Blaster 5. They blow through it fast, buy extra levels online, and blow through those, too. Sometimes Ned joins them, sometimes he doesn’t. MJ is always too cool to hang out with them after school, but no matter who’s with them, dinner afterwards is always filled with conversation about their days, laughter, and a warm feeling Peter has trouble identifying.

Eventually Harry stops calling Tony by his formal title. None of them notice this change, because none of them are paying attention to social niceties anymore. 

“Does Norman know you spend so much time over here?” asks Tony, one evening, from behind the grill, out on the penthouse’s main balcony, while Peter and Harry finish writing essays for English.  

Pepper is missing. She’s away at Stark Industries meetings and Peter notices her absence when he has to go back inside and grab his jacket, the cold reminding him instead of her and it all feels very wrong. They’re missing a vital part of their pretend family.

“Not exactly.”

“I’m gonna pretend you said yes,” says Tony. “Next time lie.” 

Peter fixates on the small flames cooking their hamburgers. He still thinks of One – not his nightmares – every time he sees fire. Wants a chance to fight him, his own revenge plot and he searches for his chance the same way Harry searches for an opportunity to pick a fight with Flash at school now that he has the tools to do so.

At some point, the sting of being trapped indoors and under security surveillance at all times is dulled down, lessened by Harry, by having company, but even on the nights he’s not with them, Peter can’t think of a place he’d rather be. He stops feeling trapped and starts feeling surrounded by people and things even that dark place in his chest does not want to wander away from. It becomes effortless. Easy. To keep those panicked, fearful feelings from bubbling up.

Even the nightmares come fewer and far between. There’s a night his terror is so minor it fails to register on FRIDAY’s radar, and when Peter sits up in his bed, Tony is nowhere to be found. He looks around, tired and groggy, before falling back into his covers, asleep before he can appreciate that he’s able to go back to sleep.

* * *

Nothing exhausts Nat like a reporter asking too many questions. She’s dodged the lady more times than she can count, in the hallways and once in the teacher’s lounge, but it’s a bad day when she’s cornered in her own office by the persistent, only doing her job but still annoying, journalist. She’s wanting to finish up her article about Midtown, the school where both Tony Stark and Norman Osborn have decided to send their sons. 

Nat has no patience for it, and it only takes a few dead-eyed, one-word responses for the woman to leave her alone. Another person replaces her immediately afterwards. Before Peter, Tony is the very last person Nat would ever expect to see roaming the halls of a high school, and yet he’s here, uninvited and making himself at home in the chair across from her desk.

He hits her with a sobering expression, lost in thought, the way he looks when he’s trying and failing to figure out a problem.

“We need to start thinking about what we’re going to do with Harry when we have his dad shipped off to prison.”

“I thought Harry wasn’t our problem?" 

“Damn kids,” says Tony. “They’re making me soft.”

Nat leans back in her chair, smiles at him. “You can always adopt another one.”

“No one said anything about me adopting the first one.”

“Give it up, Stark,” says Nat. She looks at him like he’s stupid, because he is stupid, and it’d been an exceptionally stupid thing for him to say. “It’s getting harder and harder to believe we’re only pretending he’s your son.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty smart,” says Tony, something flickering across his face, something like warmth and pride that’s truly genuine, completely unlike the arrogance he usually flaunts around.

“I was talking about his mouth.”

Tony pretends he doesn’t hear her.

“Look even if I wanted another stray teenage boy moping around my penthouse,” says Tony, getting back to the point. “He can’t stay here. How safe do you think it’ll be in the city for the son of a man who’s guilty for dozens for kidnappings and a few child murders? He’ll have to disappear when this gets out.” 

“I’ll put that on my list,” says Nat. “Right under what we’re going to do with a bunch of mutant orphans.”

Finding homes for kids with superpowers will be difficult, but a solution for Harry is obvious, even if some people will have to be convinced. She doesn’t mention her plan to Tony, though, because he’s already getting up from the chair and moving to leave the office. Obviously not planning to offer any help, but only dropping by to add to her problems. She’s not surprised.

* * *

Harry unscrews the cap of the liquor bottle and takes a victorious swig from it. They didn’t bother getting glasses. Neither of them wanted to be caught and questioned by Tony as to why they were taking empty ones back to Peter’s room. As for the liquor, Harry smuggled inside the penthouse in his bookbag and they took it out to Peter’s balcony. Safe, at least, from Tony’s sudden arrivals.

He passes the bottle to Peter. He turns it over in his hands, remembering Tony snatching a similar one away from him, before taking a drink. Just a little one. He has to fake it. He has to pretend the alcohol has an effect on him. Although it doesn’t, and never will, Peter still enjoys the feeling of doing something adult, of performing a normal teenage rebellion Tony wouldn’t really care about, not in the same way he yelled at him for disappearing.

And besides, it’s a celebration. The opportunity finally came for Harry. Earlier that day, Flash buzzed a little bit too close to Harry’s ear out in the hallway, and before Flash could even blink, Harry turned and got him good in the eye. The push wasn’t needed. Flash crumbled to the floor with one hit. Apparently, compared to Peter, he’s easily dropped.

Peter passes the bottle back to Harry. It’s a strange celebration. There’s a tint of melancholy hanging over them, and Peter can’t really trace its origin, though he suspects it’s different for each of them.

“Is your dad going to be mad?” Peter tries. “That you hit Flash?”

“If it makes the tabloids,” says Harry, lazily.

“That’s lucky. If I got into another fight at school my dad – “

“- don’t,” says Harry. “Stop. You pretend to hate your dad, but you really don’t, and I can’t figure out why.”

Peter hesitates, caught and dead in the water, brain working to figure out something to say to fix it. Only the truth is available. He thinks wildly it will make the sitation salvageable, and maybe make him feel like less of a jerk.

“I think it’s maybe because that’ what my mom would want, if she were alive,” says Peter. “You know, she didn’t really want me to know my father.”

It’s close to true, anyway. There’s no way Mary Parker isn’t rolling in her grave or watching somewhere in the afterlife, if there is such as place, with unimpressed disapproval. That look is on her permanently. It’s the only way he remembers her. He does remember love, too, she definitely did love him. More than she loved Richard. More than she loved anything. 

“Sometimes I wonder if my mom were still alive, if she would still love my dad, or if she ever really did,” says Harry. His eyes are set to the New York City skyline. Distant. Far away and trying to see hidden stars that are probably dead, too. He takes another drink of the liquor and doesn’t bother passing the bottle back. “I’ve been doing research, and I think that guy is right – “

“-who? That loser at the arcade?”

Harry nods. “People have a way of disappearing around my father.”

“Maybe I can help you, find out for sure,” says Peter. “We can search his office. I bet if he’s involved in… something, we’ll find evidence.”

“…we can’t go in there.”

“Why not?” 

“He would kill me… And then Tony would kill you. You’re still grounded.”

Peter’s considered this already. It’s a risk. A gamble with his already limited freedom, but if he’s able to find something in Norman’s office that connects him with New Life, his lockdown will be a very short one. And then…everything will be normal. And quiet. And he’ll be free. Harry is looking down to the bottom of the liquor bottle, and maybe it’s not fair to him. To use him this way. But it’s so close now. It’s almost finished. Done. It’s what Peter wants the most.

“He’ll be home late on Monday,” says Harry, and Peter takes this to mean he’s come around.

“Monday, then.”  

Peter wonders if doing something stupid is made better by premeditation, or worse. At least he’s doing what Tony always advises him to do. He’s thinking it through. Sort of.

* * *

He’s surrounded by grey, concrete walls on every side, and when his door flies open, he doesn’t move. A piece of waded up paper soars through the air, lands on his chest and when he unravels it, he’s greeted with the title of an article _STARK AND OSBORN HEIRS_ _ATTEND MIDTOWN HIGH_.

A picture of Peter Parker, grinning at the camera with no trace of panic in him, is underneath, along with a picture of another boy. Someone he doesn’t recognize. There’s a target in the form of a red X over one of them, the other’s face is free.

“Fetch.” 

The metal door screeches shut, and the article turns to ashes in his lit hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's chapter 17... I still can't believe it's almost the end! I'm going to try, crossing my fingers and everything, to start posting every Friday and Sunday night, and actually have a kind of regular posting schedule instead of just random days for the last 6 chapters (might actually be last 7 chapters. who even knows anymore) Anyways, thanks to everyone who's stuck around and read this story! You're awesome! And thanks to everyone who is subscribing/bookmarking/leaving kudos/commenting!


	18. lost boys, I

18… lost boys, I

Ditching Happy is easy.

It takes one well-placed lie, sent in the form of a text message, to set Harry and Peter’s plans into motion.

Detention, he wrote. Nat is staying behind with him. She’ll escort him home.

Peter and Harry walk down the sidewalk, heading towards Harry’s building, holding their jackets close as they march against the wind. Something is jumping through his veins, like electricity, like lightening, growing wilder and more unpredictable as they move closer, as the time gets nearer and nearer for Peter to search through the office of the man responsible for ruining his life. Ruining? Huh. It’s strange. That word… feels wrong. His life isn’t ruined, and he doesn’t believe that anymore. As fast as a switch flips and electricity changes directions, the realization comes that he has so much to lose.

Family, maybe. Tony and Pepper? Steve and Clint and Nat fit in somewhere, too. Peter even allows some space for Bucky, because talking to the normal kids at school has taught him everyone has siblings they hate.

His feet propel him forward, towards the place he’s hoping all this will come to an end, he thinks maybe this stunt is too much for his stand-in father, maybe it will push him over the edge and he’ll be convinced to get rid of him for good, and not just until New Life is burned into the ground and stomped into ash.

Peter doesn’t want that anymore, doesn’t even want to pretend being alone is better than having someone who looks out for him anymore, but he needs to see how hard he can push, how much strength it will take before Tony gives up on him and goes away. It’s the second purpose of walking straight into the enemy’s home with no backup, no phone and a signal jammer he stole from the workshop in his bookbag. Something so incredibly stupid that if Tony still wants Peter around in the penthouse after this, he knows there isn’t anything else he can do to change his mind.

A gust of cold and strong wind knocks Peter off balance, Harry steadies him and they both stop and pause. On the left, a desert playground, rusted over and noticeably unsafe, groans under the wind’s pressure. Chains from a swing set clank and chine and creek as they sway with the invisible force. Beneath a plastic, swirling slide, dirt kicks up, blows across the desolate play area, covering equipment meant for toddlers.

“Some lady in my building paid for that, the lot and everything, put that crumby playground in, just so her grandchildren would have somewhere to play when they came over,” says Harry. It isn’t until then Peter realizes the next building over must be the one the Osborns call home. It’s towering and classy, and a doorman is in the process of helping someone in fancy clothes with their bags.

“Doesn’t look like it’s used much.” 

“It’s not. She died, and they never came to visit her much, anyway.”

Peter abandons holding onto this jacket, and instead covers his hair with his hands, trying to keep it in place, as they move pass the playground and onward. It’s getting long again. Tony commented on it before he left for school this morning. He’s making an appointment, he said. With a real barber this time.

He lets go, tries to smooth it down as best he can, before they enter the lobby of a building where mostly important people live. He’s one of them now. A Stark. And as a Stark he finds this lobby unimpressive, boring and filled with old-fashion displays screaming of old money. Nothing like the fresh, sleek and modern architecture he’s gotten used to surrounding him. They pass a fire extinguisher stuck in a glass box as they approach the elevators, and it figures. Doesn’t matter how pretty and expensive things are, they still burn the same way as everything else.

The elevator takes them up and out and into the Osborn home. Harry leads him up a staircase, then into a long hallway. The room at the very end, the one with its door cracked open, just slightly, is Norman’s office. Each step closer Peter’s heartbeats come faster. Static electricity crackles somewhere in his chest. It’s there. On the other side of that door. The smoking gun. Evidence that will end everything. When he gets to the middle of the hallway, he nearly breaks into a run.

He pushes open the door with the back of his hand, and if it were a movie, the office he finds on the other side would be a horror show. Filled with things like syringes and needles and metal tables, the ones Peter got familiar with, but he isn’t in a movie. Norman’s office is boring, like the lobby below them. Just one large oak desk with a computer sitting on top of it, a giant chair sitting behind it and bookcases lined with thick, dusty books behind that.

No pictures on the wall. No credentials. No sign of any part of Norman’s life. Not Oscorp. Not Harry. Not even research. A plain, generic office, that could belong to anyone, as mundane and uniform as an office cubicle, but on the shows Peter’s seen, even those are decorated to match the person’s personality.

Peter’s already seated behind the computer when Harry enters the room, slow and indifferent, as he joins him.

He wiggles the mouse and is greeted by a login screen.

“What’s his password?” asks Peter, looking up at Harry, who’s standing behind him.

“How would I know?”

“You’re his son…”

“Do you know any of Tony’s passwords?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Like he uses passwords.”

They begin guessing. Things like the name of Norman’s favorite book, or his favorite author, or cross-genetics. That last one is Harry’s suggestions. Apparently the subject is one of Norman’s favorite subjects to bore him with, and Peter has trouble keeping a grip on the mouse without shaking it. They try Harry’s mother’s name. It doesn’t work. They try her whole name, just her middle, then her maiden name, by itself. So many failed passwords are type in, Peter begins to worry they might trigger a security alert.

“What’s your birthday?”

“Don’t bother,” says Harry. “It’s not that. Too obvious, anyway.” 

Peter doesn’t mention the name of his dead wife is also blatantly obvious.

“I can’t believe Tony Stark’s son doesn’t know how to hack a computer.”

He sighs and relaxes in the chair. He does know how to hack computers. It’s a skill learned out of necessity during the days he planned his escape from New Life, to gather information, but he would like to do things the proper way, if possible. Wants to avoid anything setup to alert Norman of security breaches. Men with a lot of secrets have a lot of ways to protect them. This whole day is a huge risk, so he sees no problem taking another one, but only because it’s necessary.

It takes Peter two minutes to get in through a backdoor. His digital desktop is as simple as his physical one, and there’s nothing incriminating. Not at first glance. Just a link to an office program. Email. He double clicks on that one and scrolls through the subject lines. 

“Try searching for Oscorp Distributing,” says Harry.

It’s a waste of time. The search brings no results.

Harry’s cellphone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket. “Weird. Unknown caller.”

“Don’t answer that!” Peter’s head snaps back, then frowns at the way his voice comes out more than a few octaves higher. “It’s my dad.” 

“Paranoid much?”

His text tone goes off and he brings his phone closer to his face to read it.

“I’m supposed to tell you if you don’t head home now you’re going to know what it’s really like to be a prisoner.”

“Great.”

Peter searches faster, frantic, almost. Clicks through everything, pours through internet histories, emails and even, a last-ditch effort, the Oscorp website. There’s nothing. And Peter’s not really surprised. Why would there be? Norman isn’t stupid enough to keep anything about New Life on a computer, and if he was, Tony would have found it by now, remotely, lounging and relaxing in the comfort of his own home. Stupid. This is more stupid than Peter originally thought.

He makes one last, desperate, search through the hard-drive’s files, typing in child experimentation. One result pops up into the screen. The word experimentation is crossed out in the results, and the folder it titled: Harry – childhood photos.

“Harry, look at this.”

He clicks on the folder, and a photo album appears. Young Harry smiling, drawing, frowning at the ocean somewhere on a beach. Some pictures aren’t of Harry at all. They’re pictures of things he’s drawn, scanned in, and made digital. There’re videos, too, from opening Christmas presents to trying to surf. Snapshots of happy memories Norman put together to keep forever. Something someone who doesn’t care wouldn’t think to do, wouldn’t want to take the time to do.

Peter’s taken off guard with jealousy. Before Peter and Harry had unloving fathers in common, but now it seems like everyone else has a father who loves, or loved them, except for Peter. And maybe Tony. Unless Howard Stark also kept a secret stash of photos Tony never found.

Peter lets Harry sit down in his place and look through them. He becomes silent, something strange in his eyes, and Peter stands awkwardly, looking around the office filled with mostly empty space. It troubles him. The idea Norman Osborn loves his son but is completely fine with kidnapping and torturing children. Two opposites that are so far apart Peter can’t believe they exist in the same person, but apparently, do.

It’s an uncomfortable conflict with his beliefs, and he can’t stand still. He squats down, riffles through drawers attached to the desk on the left side. His heart skips a beat when his eyes land on a vanilla folder sticking up, labelled with an ambiguous NLRF. He grabs it, opens it and explodes with he sees it in print. An invoice with New Life’s name on it. An invoice with Oscorp’s name on it. 

An official document connecting the two.

Peter steals a glance at Harry. His eyes might as well be behind the glass. He doesn’t even notice when Peter hooks the strap on his bookbag with his foot, drags it over, and stuffs the entire folder inside, zipping it up and releases a breath once he does.

“We should get going,” says Peter. “Shouldn’t he be back any minute?”

“Huh? Oh yeah…”

Harry lets Peter take back over, and he shuts everything off, before the two of the retreat from the office, Peter high from adrenaline and excitement of what’s been found, and Harry dazed and subdued by what’s been found. Peter throws his bookbag on the table in their dining room, while Harry rummages through the fridge for something to drink. 

They aren’t in there long before the elevator dings, and Norman Osborn steps out of it. His eyes land on Peter. He doesn’t even have enough politeness about him to pretend he’s anything other than disgusted, before turning his attention to Harry.

“Harry… I thought I told you to avoid hanging out with any Stark spawn.”

Norman would probably throw a fit if he knew it just wasn’t Stark spawn Harry’s been hanging out with, but the man himself, too. It’s a thought that makes Peter smile. That and the papers sitting inside his bookbag.

Harry shrugs casually, a can of coke from the fridge in his hands. “It’s okay, cause he wasn’t born a Stark, right, Peter?”

Peter’s heart jumps up to his throat. The noise that has been gone for so long comes back, louder and heavier, as he watches the gears in Norman’s head turning. 

“Oh?”

“He’s really a Parker.”

Peter meets Norman’s eyes and they are eyes lit with recognition and realization. The two stare at each other, man and boy, one viewing the other properly for the first time, and despite Peter knowing this is a bad, bad thing, there’s a certain satisfaction in it. He watches innocently as Norman’s face narrows with the deepest disgust, flickers briefly with pride, before exploding into panic. The old man’s heartbeat ticks up. He takes a few steps backwards and ultimately leaves them alone, bolting into the hallway containing his office.

“What’s with him?” asks Harry.

“I have to go,” says Peter, barely seeing Harry frown as he races to the elevator and smashes the button.

He hears Harry yelling his name as the doors slid shut, but he doesn’t go back up. He’s out of the elevator, across the lobby and out the door within in a minute. He looks around once he’s outside, groans as he realizes he’s far from the penthouse, with no phone, no way to contact Tony or Happy, and the walk to the nearest subway station is a long one. 

He sighs, feet carrying him over to the creepy playground, and sits on a swing. He can’t remember ever going to a park with his parents. His life before the facility was filled with books and studying and sometimes watching TV. He kicks at the few pieces of mulch under his feet, hands gripped around the chains.

“Peter!”

Peter turns his head and sees Harry coming towards him. Carrying his bookbag. In the rush to leave, he forgot it on the Osborn’s table.

“You missed it. My dad’s freaking out… yelling on his phone to some employee. He’s completely lost it.”

Harry stands there, holding out the bookbag, offering it up to Peter, who doesn’t make a move to take it. What’s inside will destroy his family. And it feels wrong. Taking it right out of his hand without him knowing what he’s doing. What he’s handing over.

“Peter… what’s wrong?” 

He’s going to tell Harry the truth. The whole truth, not just part way, but when he opens his mouth to do it, his senses scream. His eyes snap towards the road, straight in front of him, where a boy with messy blonde hair is getting out of a black car with tainted windows. He shuts the door, stands still, until he looks at Peter. He smiles. Peter grips the chains of the swing tight, so tight, he’s sure it’s going to leave indents in his palms. 

The boy with no name – Peter refuses to call anyone by a number, not anymore – begins his slow march towards them, hair whipping around in the wind. Deranged. Wild. Crazy.

In another world, another universe, one where Peter hadn’t been rescued by Tony and the others, would he be like that, too? If left to rot for as long as the boy coming for them, would he turn into a monster? A mindless, order-obeying, drone?

“Harry get out of here,” says Peter, low.

“What? Why? Who is that?” asks Harry. “Do you two know each other?”

“We go way back, right, Peter?" 

Peter stays silent. Lets his eyes do the talking for him. He’s both nervous and thankful to fate, for giving him this opportunity. Just needs to get Harry away. He does, briefly, hear Tony’s words bouncing around between his ears. Turn around. Walk away. Those are not options. Too late for that now he’s already been seen. His enemy is out for blood, wouldn’t let Peter get away without a fight even if that’s what he wanted. Call one someone. He can manage that. By the time Tony arrives, their fight will be finished.

He doesn’t anticipate it lasting very long.

“Harry, go inside and call my dad.”

“Your dad? You mean Tony Stark? Since when did he become your father? Last time I checked kidnapping didn’t make you a parent.”

“Can’t be kidnapped if you’re not actually seen as a person,” says Peter. Strong and firm. Mimicking the way Tony speaks when he wants to be taken seriously or wants to drive home a point. There’s a part of Peter, a very, very small part, that wants this boy to see what’s happened to him, that the people he serves are not good, are not even good to him despite his obedience.  

Maybe, he thinks, he can knock some sense into him with well-placed jab to the face.

Harry still hasn’t moved. He’s glued to the same spot, and when Peter glances back at him, his eyes are moving between the two of them, trying to figure out what’s going on.

“And I’m not going back, so you’re wasting your time.”

“Oh, I know. No one wants you back anyway. Yesterday’s news.” His grin is wild and dangerous, and his eyes shift over to Harry for a split second, before switching back to Peter. 

“Harry, run. Run and call Tony.”

“There’s two of us,” says Harry. Brave, clueless. It’s described Peter in the past, and maybe perhaps now, too, and he’s beginning to notice how often those two words are together. “We can take him together.”

The blonde boy’s hand ignites and becomes engulfed in flames. Harry jumps back in fright, colliding with the second swing, tangling himself in it and eventually falling backward. Peter stands quickly, pulls Harry up by his arm and pushes him towards his building, towards his home, feeling a little relieved to see Harry moving away without being chased.

Peter doesn’t give him anymore time, doesn’t turn around and look at him before jerking backwards and punching him, hard, in the face. Caught off guard, he spirals backwards, easily falls to the ground. Looking up at Peter from the ground, he’s still wearing that stupid grin. Peter walks towards him. Forgetting about thinking things through. Forgetting about Steve’s advice to analyze how the other man fights. None of that crosses his mind.

This boy is an easy target for his grief. An easy label for every amount of misery he’s felt, every time he’s felt trapped. Not logical, he knows it, knows every bit of this is wrong, knows he should allow that tiny part of empathy to grow, but he can’t stop himself from moving towards him.

It’s a mistake. 

A hand lit on fire yanks Peter on the ground, and it’s his turn to be caught off guard. He doesn’t expect the pain that accompanies fire with it clasps around skin. Searing, white-hot and unrelenting, but when he screams, it isn’t because there’s a ring of fire locked around his arm, his good arm, it’s because whatever wall in his mind that keeps the memories jailed breaks. It comes back.

They all come back.

The pain from that is enough to keep him pinned on the ground, even after the death-grip on his arm is released and the other boy is getting to his feet. Keeps him there long enough to take a kick to his head, and a couple more to his stomach. It stops after that, and Peter rolls on his back, looks up at him. The grin is gone. It’s replaced with a somber, sobering expression. Foreign, at least, to him.

“God, I wish I could kill you,” he says. “I hate you, you know. Always have.”

“Do it, then.”

“Can’t. You’re untouchable now Tony Stark is your father. They don’t want to attract Iron Man’s fury.” He crouches down and wiggles his fingers, flexes his hand. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun, though.”

The fire is on him again, but it’s shorter than last time. When Peter opens his eyes, tries to sit up, his tormentor is standing above him, covered in white foam. His hands have returned to normal, and he’s looking menacingly somewhere behind Peter. He follows his gaze. Sees Harry standing nearby, wide-eye, with a fire extinguisher locked in his hand.

“Big mistake. What? Did you actually think that would work? This isn’t a cartoon.”

Harry’s speechless, stumbling backwards and wearing Peter’s bookbag, as the boy-monster gets closer to him. Peter tries to stand again, but gravity pulls him back down and the earth tilts beneath him. His head still throbs from that kick, arm still burns from the fire, and the next time Peter’s able to see straight, it’s too late. Harry’s being pushed into a black car. The bookbag holding evidence to put his own father in prison planted on his back.

He watches the car drive away, lets his head fall back against the ground, and shuts his eyes tight.

* * *

Peter sits in the middle of the deserted playground, somewhere between the slide and the swings, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped over them, as he stares straight ahead. He can’t convince his body to move, or his mind to think. Thinking is remembering, and moving means leaving the space he let Harry get taken to the place in his nightmares. Both are too much. Too much to process when thoughts become louder than words and his limbs are heavier than his last name. 

So, he stares, blank and empty, into the sheet of fresh darkness in front of him. 

The burn on his arm stings. A good sting. One that means its healing, but also keeping him pinned down on the earth instead of floating away to join the stars.

If he could move, he would want his bed. _His_ bed. The one in his bedroom in the penthouse. That one specifically. Or maybe in the couch in his room would do. It’s just as comfortable, more comfortable sometimes, just as vast and engulfing and warm.

“Peter?” 

A familiar voice jolts him, and although he doesn’t move his head, his eyes look up and met Tony’s. He stands just a few feet away, face tense with worry and disquiet, visible even in the darkness and Peter waits. Waits for the yelling to start. For Tony to let him have it. He deserves it. The very worse a Stark can come up with. Peter’s only been a Stark for a couple of months, but he already knows the damage they can do with just a few words or a well-placed glare.

Tony uses neither as he closes the distance between them and sits down next to him in the dirt. He’s not wearing Tony Stark clothes, but Tony clothes. Dark blue jeans, black shirt with some band logo on the front. Clothes Peter associates with days being shut-in at the penthouse, or even their suite back at the compound.

“What happened?” Something in his voice slices at him worse than shouting, worse than a glare, because Peter doesn’t deserve compassion. His fault. The whole disaster is his fault.

“Y-yell at me.”

“Kid…”

“T-they took…” Words come at him fast, so fast, they don’t come out properly. He points over to the road, and Tony follows the finger with his eyes, face creased with a confused frown. “H-harry… I… remember _e-everything_ …” Emptiness is flooded away, salt stings at his eyes, at this confession. “My… dad… he- “ 

“Hey, just… take some deep breaths, alright?”

He’s scaring Tony. It’s clear from that look on his face and the lack of anger after a stunt partly meant to incite it. He pushed as hard as he could, did the one thing Tony would be most antagonized by, but he’s still here. Sitting with him on the ground, in the middle of a playground no one uses anymore, so when two hands are placed on his shoulders, he’s tugged nearer, and two arms surround him, Peter gives up. Buries his face in Tony’s chest, sobs and hangs on, tight, not wanting to ever let go.

It’s a quiet place. Not at all silent, with all its pointy edges and harsh sounds, but more like wind whispering through the trees, water stirring slowly in a stream, or a soft crackle of thunder, every now and then, during a light rainstorm. It’s like they’re not even in the park anymore, despite the actual sounds around them telling Peter otherwise. He hears Happy arguing with people over by the street, telling them to move along. This isn’t a photo op. They apparently didn’t hear the message, because the next thing Peter hears is the distinct sound of a cellphone crunching on the concrete.

“Send us a bill,” says Happy. People scoff, but Peter can hear their heartbeats and footsteps get further and further away.

Another sob forces its way out as Tony holds him. One for the guilt. Ditching Happy and lying to him after the man had been giving him the gift of fifteen-minute sprees of freedom here and there. Guilt for Laney. Guilt for hardly ever thinking about her, or the other kids still alive and trapped. And the freshest stab of it, guilt for Harry. Now one of those kids.

Peter lifts his face, moves away from Tony’s shirt just enough to speak without being muffled by the cloth. “It’s my fault.”

“What’s your fault?”

Everything, but he goes for the most recent, the most relevant. “T-they took Harry.”

“They?”

“The psycho with fire hands,” says Peter. He remembers his name now, his real name, but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. “And some guards in a black car.”

There’s a pause, hesitation, and Peter lays his head back up against Tony.

“It’s not your fault,” says Tony. “You were right… that day in the car, you didn’t ask for any of this. You’re just a kid and all these adults in your life made bad choices for you. Including me. I… I put a gun in your hand, and I’ve regretted it every day since.”

“But – but, I needed – “

“-You needed stability, I threw you into chaos. I should’ve stopped it instead of giving you chances to back out, but I’m stopping it now. You’re done.” 

Seems like a no-brainer to Peter. Their target is now a victim of kidnapping.

“We’re going back to the compound. Bruce has an antidote ready, so we’re going to get those kids the hell out of there, along with Harry and all this will be over.”

Peter isn’t about to ask if ‘we’re’ means he gets to come on the rescue mission, too. The ice is already thin, despite Tony’s compassion, so he saves that argument for a later date.

“What about Norman?” asks Peter. He backs away, out of the embrace, to see Tony’s face.

“Not important enough to concern ourselves with,” says Tony. “Men like that, they have too many secrets. It’ll out come out eventually.”

The night Peter met Tony for the first time, really met him, his suite had been taken over by Norman Osborn and his research. A man obsessed. Not unlike Peter’s own father, although Tony’s motivations were a little more noble and resulted in Peter getting rescued and now the rest of the kids, too. Peter never hears Tony talk about Norman Osborn and his crimes anymore. Their conversations have been preoccupied with things like Peter’s wrist or his dad or his memories.

He can’t pinpoint it. The moment the mission shifted from taking down Norman Osborn to just…being a normal family. But it had somewhere. It’s clear now more than ever.

“Now… can we please get out of here and off the ground?” asks Tony, and Peter nods.

Happy’s ready and waiting to open the door for them. Peter hesitates, looking at Happy, another sob in his throat. “Happy I’m s-sorry…”

The man’s face is horrified, and Peter realizes how pathetic he must look after a fight with a maniac and crying into Tony’s shirt.

“How many times do I have to tell you? No apologizing,” says Tony, pushing him into the car. “It hurts worse than your crimes.” 

Peter frowns, gets comfortable in the seat and tries to figure out how that could be. His brain is still working as the car pulls away, leaving the playground abandoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anddd there's 18!! That one was harder to write than I imagined when I planned it! Trying really hard to get the next one out soon, but don't be surprised if it's a little bit later than usual, like Thursday - Friday. 
> 
> Big thanks to all you guys reading this, following this story, and giving kudos. You guys in the comment section are always so great!


	19. return to neverland

  1. return to neverland



 

Nine Years Earlier 

“I’m bored.”

“Play with your cars.” 

Peter sighs. Loud. It’s meant to break his dad’s attention away from the papers he’s furiously writing on, but he’s unsuccessful. He slumps his shoulders, drags his racecar across the floor, then looks back up at Richard hopefully. Stares at him. Annoyance at this situation, at being stuck in this boring office with boring grey walls is purposely folded into all his body language. This is also unsuccessful. His father doesn’t look away from his work.

“When are we going home?”

 “Soon.”

“When’s soon?”

“Peter,” says Richard. There’s a light laugh in his voice, cheerful and warm, and it makes his annoyance wash away into a small smile. “The more you ask, the longer we’ll be stuck here.”

“Okkaayy,” says Peter, with another sigh.

Normally he likes going to work with his dad. Likes the school, at least, with all the older kids who smile at him and ask him questions. And even Ms. Hawkins. She always gives him something to color with when his dad forgets to bring his toys. Richard didn’t forget his toys this time, because it hadn’t been him who packed all the things. His mom packed him a small bag full of the things he loves, and together, hand in hand, they boarded a small plane that took them here. To dad. To his other, secret job.

He doesn’t like it. This place. Whatever it’s supposed to be. There aren’t any friendly faces to talk with. Just the opposite, actually.

They act grumpy. Like they all need naps.

Or like they shouldn’t work so much. Like they should go home and be with their families instead, then maybe his dad could be home more, too.

Richard pushes back in the chair and stands. “I have to file this report, but I’ll be right back. Stay in here, okay?”

“By myself?” He hates being alone. Especially in a place as cold as this one.

“You’re getting old enough,” says Richard. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Peter’s annoyance comes back in the form of a frown as he watches Richard leave through the metal door. At the school he’s never alone, and as his eyes dart around the small, dull room, he wishes they would have dropped him off at May and Ben’s apartment instead of bringing him here. That’s usually what happens when they go on business trips. He can’t figure out why it has to be different this time.

His eyes fall on his two racecars. It’s one too many for just him to play with. Someone else needs to join his game, or it’s no fun. He collects his cars, stands and treads across the office. Carefully, he pushes open the metal door, finding it heavier than he thought it would be. He holds it in place with his foot, looks both ways down the narrow, dim hall, and when he doesn’t see any monsters running around, leaves, letting the door shut with a slam behind him.

The hall stays empty as he walks through it, and he can’t help thinking about the scary films May and Ben put on when they think he’s sleeping. He stays alert. He stays ready. Aware he’s very small in a very big world.

He gets to a room with the door propped open, and it grabs his attention. He steps inside, looking all around, with wide-eyes. It’s the biggest room he’s ever seen. The ceiling reaches into the sky, and the floor is filled with so much empty space, his mind works overtime thinking about what he could do with all of it. Build the biggest race track. A giant, Lego city. This room has enough space for both, and more. There’s mysterious small room Peter doesn’t understand. It’s situated behind a sheet of glass.

In front of the glass, sitting slumped against it, is another boy. Just as small as him, sitting on the ground and looking at him nervously.

Peter smiles at him and darts across the room. The boy looks up, flinches, then diverts his eyes back down.

“Hi…” says Peter. “I’m Peter. What’s your name?”

“Michael.” It’s barely even a whisper, and Peter strains his ears to hear him.

“Wanna play racecar with me?” He holds out one of the cars, but Michael doesn’t take it. 

“I don’t think that I can…”

Peter scrunches up his face but shakes it off quickly. Sometimes kids are just shy. Not at all like Peter, who talks fast about anything and everything to anyone who will listen. That’s not a bad thing. Aunt May told him so. Just some kids aren’t used to it, but he should be nice to them anyway.

“It’s easy,” he says. He sits on the floor across from the silent boy and places the cars out between them. “I’ll be the red and blue one. That’s my favorite. It always wins cause red is the fastest color. That’s why red cars always get pulled over by policemen. Here. You can play with this one.”

He rolls the black car towards the boy. Hesitantly he reaches out and touches it, lamely rolls it back and forth a couple of times.

Peter rolls his along the concrete floor, fast, and rams it into the black one. He makes an exploding sound upon the collusion. “See? Fastest color!”

“No way,” says Michael. “I wasn’t even trying…”

Minutes later the cars sit abandoned on the floor, as the two boys are locked in a footrace, one Peter cannot win. Michael is fast. And every time he touches the glass before Peter does, he wants to try again, over and over, all the time wishing he had super-speed like one of the guys on his show. When both are panting for breath and collapse to the ground near the cars, Peter still has super-heroes on his mind.

“Who’s your favorite superhero?”

“… I don’t like superheroes.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “They aren’t good at saving people.”

“My dad is like a superhero,” says Peter. He picks his car back up and pretends it’s a plane, soaring through the air, like the one that carried him here. “He helps dumb kids learn biology, but my Uncle Ben says it isn’t very nice to call people dumb even if they’re not as smart as you.” 

“…cool,” says Michael.

Peter lifts his head and turns when he hears footsteps, and the sight of a man wearing a white lab coat approaching them instantly pulls a frown on his face. Some grown-ups, as a rule, are to be instantly disliked. This is one of them. He’s too similar to the villain on one of his cartoons. There’s a woman following him. She looks at Michael, he looks back, but neither one of them move towards each other.

“Well who do we have here?”

_“Peter.”_

Behind the white-coat man and the woman, Richard breezes through the entryway, moves pass both and stands in front of Peter in seconds. He bends down, lifts him up, and Peter arms automatically go around his neck to hold on. It’s strange, though. Maybe unfair. How adults just get to pick him up and take him wherever, especially places he does not want to go.

“I must have missed the e-mail about today being bring your child to work day,” says white-coat man. “On second thought, he does look to be just about the right age to join our little program. Perhaps he can be our second – “

“-You’re not touching my son, Monroe.”

“Just a friendly suggestion. No need to get all worked up. You should think of it as a win-win. Get rid of the brat, and we can make progress on all your beloved research.”

Peter knows better than to interrupt adults when they are talking, but he wants to tell Monroe it’s the other way around. His work keeps him from his family. His dad rather be at home. With him and mom.

“Be careful how you talk around him. You forget. He has my DNA, and that means he’s smarter than you. Maybe he’ll be your boss someday.” 

His dad turns and walks out of the room with him locked tight in his arms, while Peter takes a look back at Michael. And his cars. They’re still sitting on the floor. After they enter the hallway, it’s a quick, brisk walk back to his father’s office, where he gets put down on the desk.

“I told you to stay in here for a reason,” he says. “This place is dangerous for children.”

“Why’s Michael here, then?”

“Michael?” asks Richard. Then shakes his head. “Oh him, listen. This is going to be hard for you to understand… but that boy, he’s not like you. He’s not really a boy.”

“Then what is he?”

Richard doesn’t answer. He turns his back and rummages around in one of the cabinets. Unanswered questions and abrupt ends to conversations are something Peter is used to, so he moves on.

“Whatever he is, I think we should probably save him. Uncle Ben says we should always look out for the little guy and white-coat loser isn’t any good. He’s probably not a man, like you. Just a monster pretending to be one. Wearing a human mask. Like on my show.”

Richard releases a deep, pained sigh. “This is why I don’t like you watching so much TV. Life isn’t a television show. And don’t listen Ben, or you’ll end up just like him.”

Peter doesn’t think that would be so bad. Ben gets to watch movies all day, for work, but he doesn’t say it out loud. He’s heard all his dad’s opinions about how some jobs really aren’t jobs at all. Richard pulls a folder from the cabinets, comes closer to the desk where Peter still sits, legs swinging back and forth, and finally gives him his full attention.

“I just have to do a couple more things, and then we can go home. And if you’re good and stay in here for me, we can stop and get ice cream when mom falls asleep in the car.”

“Really?”

Richard puts his hand on top of Peter’s head, and he smiles, as the boy shakes it away.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just don’t tell your mom when she wakes up.”

He won’t. He never does.

  

Present Day

 

Cold water rushes out from the kitchen sink’s facet and pours over Peter’s arm, covering his burns and numbing the stinging. Tony is there, right beside him, holding his arm in place, as if he needs to be forced into staying, as if he’s not strong enough to shake out of his grip if he really wanted to. Tony is doing what he does best. Overreacting. It took nearly ten minutes after getting into the car and driving away from the playground for him to notice the burns, but now he has, Peter hasn’t heard the end of it. 

“Stay here,” he says, and finally, he lets go. Cuts Peter off just as he opens his mouth to speak. “Don’t wanna hear about advance healing… just, humor me, alright?”

He closes his mouth again. He’s not in any position to argue, and he’s saving up his bargaining power for later, when it really counts. Besides, somewhere in the kitchen, he can only guess at their positions by heartbeats and the scuffing of shoes against the floor, are Steve and Bucky. Somewhere near the table. Maybe sitting at it. Keeping his hand under the water gives him a reason to keep his back politely turned. To ignore them without being rude or inviting questions. 

And there’s a final reason. The water actually does feel good, but he’s not admitting that to Tony.

He turns his arm over in the water. The burns are already fading away into invisibility. They won’t even leave scars. 

On the outside.

Tony returns, turns off the water and replaces it for a blue cold pack. He’s pretty sure he’s read somewhere online not to use ice or cold packs on burns but doesn’t mention it. Still saving his arguments. Still prepping for the debate coming later. Tony leads him to the table, and he sits down across from Bucky, diagonal from Steve, ignore the way both men eye his arm.

They drove into the city expecting to take Peter back to the compound but have since then been otherwise informed. It’s a relief, really, and very fortunate timing for Bruce to decide the antidote is ready. Peter doesn’t know how he would’ve handled hours in a car with the Winter Solider with just Steve to mitigate. Not well, and not without some collateral.

“He didn’t tell you why they wanted Harry?” asks Steve.

“No.”

“Maybe Harry just knows too much,” says Bucky. “So Norman wants to have him taken care of.”

“He didn’t know anything,” says Peter, quick to the punch. The thought of Harry dying is a flare of panic, and he reassures himself with Harry’s look of utter confusion, his determination to figure out what his father was really up to. Those things were not pretend. 

“And Norman wouldn’t do that,” says Tony. He appears from somewhere behind Peter, placing a frosted over Gatorade bottle in front of him. Bucky’s eyes flicker from Tony, to the bottle, and back again. “Not to his son. Wouldn’t be able to stand the family business being passed on to someone who’s not an Osborn.”  

Not love, then. Love isn’t the reason Norman wouldn’t have his son killed off. Just some primal, survival instinct. Something devoid of emotion all together. Peter knows the difference. Remembers the difference. Now he sees his memories for what they really are, and not through the eyes of a young child. They come back in flashes. Being shown off, paraded around, then discarded and ignored behind closed doors.

A trophy son. 

Peter unscrews the lid to the Gatorade and stares into it, before taking a small drink, careful not to knock the cool pack off his arm as he does. 

“Mutiny,” he says. “If Norman got scared and threaten to pull funding, maybe they’re using him as a hostage? That’s Monroe’s worse nightmare, that funding will be pulled, and he’ll be fired… which I think actually just means killed.”

“Safe bet,” says Tony, to the last point. All the adults in the room take turns staring at each other, and Peter thinks it’s likely they think this is the case, too.

“Then we don’t give them much time for negotiation,” says Steve. “We’ll move on them tonight. They won’t be expecting us.”

Tony nods, and Peter’s sure he’s just witnessed a miracle. Iron Man and Captain America in agreement about something. He looks to Bucky to share the odd moment, then quickly looks away, remembering they don’t get along well enough to share anything.

“I’ll go make some calls,” says Steve. He scoots his chair back and stands. “Make sure the team is ready.”

He disappears from the room and Tony’s attention turns back to Peter. 

“You’re supposed to be drinking that,” he says. He points to the Gatorade, opened, but nearly untouched. “I’m guessing healing third degree burns drains your system.”

“Probably.” He takes a sip, then another, and finally one last big gulp until Tony seems satisfied.

“Go pack a bag,” says Tony. “Faster we move on this, the better.”

Peter doesn’t move. He needs some fast thinking, some way of appealing to Tony. Pity doesn’t work, neither do lies. The man seems unmovable once he’s made up his mind, but everyone is moved by something. Even if Peter hasn’t figured out what they something is yet.

“Chop chop. Get moving.”

“I get to go too, right? To the facility?” Peter turns in his chair to look at Tony. Purposely putting his back to Bucky. If it were his way, Bucky wouldn’t in the same room for this disaster of a conversation that’s about to happen.

“Uh, no,” says Tony. “You get to stay at the compound and keep Bruce company.” 

“Why?”

“He gets lonely." 

“No,” says Peter. “I meant why can’t I go with you?”

“Yeah, I got that. I was trying to give you an out…we’re really gonna do this right now?”

Peter looks back at him. Not sure if he means right now after crying all over him in a playground, or right now after nearly getting roasted to death during a fight in that same playground. It gives Peter pause, though. He doesn’t want to be in a fight with Tony. That’s one more fight in one evening he won’t win, and he knows he has no grounds to argue, should not even be entertaining the thought.

“Fine. There’s at least twenty-three separate reasons why it’s not a good idea for you to walk back into that facility, and I’d really just love to stand here and explain every single one of them in detail for you, but we don’t have time for this, so you’ll have to take a raincheck.”

“That’s not fair.”

Tony sucks in a breath, pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and points down the hallway with the other.

“Room. Now.”

And the debate, argument, or whatever it’s called when someone gets shot down almost immediately, is over. He’s using a voice Peter knows better than to argue with. One that means he’s getting closer to the end of his patience.

He removes the cool pack from his properly numb arm, snatches the half empty Gatorade bottle from the table, accidently making eye contact with Bucky as he does, and leaves the kitchen. He can’t stop himself from the slamming the door to his bedroom, though he’s angry at himself for being angry and difficult, especially after Tony took all the guilt and blame off his shoulders only to carry it himself.

Tony, who has never ignored him or left him alone after nightmares, is a lot better at pretending to be a father than Richard had been. That’s all it ever was. An act that disappeared once the audience went away, and a lie that hurt more than anything once the mask had been kicked aside.

He stands by his shut door, surveying his room and it blurs. Everything together, all at once, as he’s hit with a panic that jumps to his throat and takes his breath. The walls are closing in and logically he knows that’s impossible, would be impossible even if his room were small, but there’s no room for logic. He needs out.

Needs to get out before he learns what it feels like for a second time how deep it cuts to be disappointed and betrayed by a father.

Across the room the balcony is calling him forward. It’s an easy escape waiting for him to exploit it.

He’s like a zombie as he grabs his single web-shooter from the drawer, secures it to his wrist and hopes this time he can stick the landing.

 

9 Years Earlier

 

Peter means to stay in his dad’s office. He really wants that ice cream, after all, but he doesn’t think his dad will mind if he goes back to the really big room, just so he can get his cars back, just so he’ll have something to do. And that’s where all the trouble starts. He doesn’t know how he got to that room the first time, doesn’t know how to get back to it, and he’s taken so many turns through these confusing hallways, he doesn’t even know how to find his way back to his dad’s office. 

As he wonders around, aimless and clueless, hoping to happen upon either his dad or his office, it starts becoming clear.

Ice cream isn’t happening. Not today. 

A scream and a crash cause him to freeze. He looks around. Nothing. No one. He’s still alone in the hallway, but when hears another scream, he moves towards it, instead of away. Follows the screaming until he comes across a room with a glass door. Perfect for small eyes to see through, but not for passing through. He tugs on it. It’s locked.

He sees just enough to identify the source of the screaming is Michael. Just like he thought. It’s common sense to Peter the man in the white-coat is nearby, but he’s nowhere to be found. Somewhere out of sight is a possibility. Peeking through the door-window is kind of like watching it play out on TV, separated by a thin piece of glass and only able to see what’s in frame. The woman from earlier is there, standing next to Michael and holding his hand, while he lays on a metal table.

A man does step into Peter’s field of vision, but it isn’t the man with the white coat. It’s his dad. With his back turned to the glass door and his attention focused solely on Michael, who cries harder the closer Richard gets to him. 

“Make him stop,” says Richard. That’s not his dad’s voice. It’s foreign and strange and… devoid of something essential.

The woman begins to hum a soft tune, but it doesn’t dry Michael’s tears.

Richard moves away again, and when he comes back, he’s holding a needle attached to a syringe. More people step into frame. Peter doesn’t recognize any of them, but they’re all wearing white coats like the man from before. They hold Michael’s arms and legs as Richard sticks the needle in his arm and slowly injects it.

“How does that feel?” he asks. 

“It b-burns,” the boy sobs. He looks away, and when he does, locks eyes with Peter. They immediately narrow into something Peter has no experience with, and therefore doesn’t have a name for.

“Good. That’s what we want,” he says. 

He moves out of frame again, and when he comes back, he’s on the other side of Michael. His face is turned towards Peter, but he doesn’t see his son staring through the door-window. Peter sees him. For the first time, maybe, and with a sinking horror that makes him back up several steps, discovering the monsters under his bed were there hiding from the monster in his home.

A monster who wears a human mask. A mask that has now slipped away.

And this whole time he thought his dad was a superhero, sacrificing time with his family to teach and to discover new things, work that would help people, but this… he ignores his family for this? 

As sudden as the screaming are the flames. They shoot out from Michael’s arms, but despite his arms being on fire, he stays calm. Sits up, moves his arm back and forth, back and forth, in front of his face, flames reflected in his eyes, before his eyes set on Richard. He stretches out his hand, reaches for Richard’s arm, but he’s too fast. He steps back. 

“Put him to sleep,” he says, bored and lazy.

Michael drops unconscious. Like someone somewhere Peter can’t see flipped a switch. His head hits the metal table hard, and the flames disappear from his arms, leaving them pale and white, like they were before.

“… did you just – did you kill?”

“Just sleeping,” says Richard. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wad of cash rubber-banded together, and hands it to the woman. “You’re doing the right thing for him. He’ll be taken care of here. He’ll have opportunities he’d never have otherwise…”

She takes the money, but even Peter can tell, she doesn’t look convinced. 

Richard shifts his position, readjusting his glasses, and does a double-take. He watches Peter watching him from behind the glass. He pulls a softer, gentler face on once the shock at seeing him disappears. Peter steps backwards again, and when his back hits the wall opposite of the door, he turns and sprints down the hall. Small legs moving as fast as they can, but it isn’t fast enough. An arm hooks around his belly, yanking him back and eventually pulling him into the air and against his dad’s chest, as he kicks and claws and yells. 

“No! Let me go!”

His grip gets tighter. “Peter you don’t understand – “

“-You hurt that boy! You made him cry!”

The struggle continues, but it’s in vain. His arms are too small and weak, and they don’t turn into fire, and so he gets carried away to a place he doesn’t want to go. Richard punches in a code, the door clicks and seconds later they’re in the room, behind the glass door. Everyone else is gone, and when Richard finally releases him, puts him down on the same metal table Michael laid on just minutes ago, Peter is mostly subdued. Worn out. He sits, breathing heavy, watching his dad carefully. 

“I want to go home now.”

“We’ll get there. I just need you to be good and sit still. Can you do that? Then we’ll go home and forget all about this.”

He nods slowly, apprehensive. Agreeing is the only option. One he chooses out of survival, not trust. Richard stands near a counter, messing with another needle, another syringe, and Peter’s heart picks up. It beats in his head. It beats in his fingers, and his in toes. He doesn’t want to be ate up by fire. He likes his arms just the way they are now. He takes a deep, shaky breath as Richard gets closer. Syringe in hand, he bends down to look him in the eye with an explanation waiting on his lips.

He doesn’t get the chance to explain himself. Peter rolls on his back, imitating something he once show in a TV show, and delivers one forceful kick right into his dad’s glasses.

“Shit!”

Peter jumps off the table. His feet crunch on broken glass as he lands, and once he shakes off the fall, he bolts towards the door. It opens before he gets there. Relief floods through him when it’s his mom on the other side. He runs to her, wraps his arms around her legs, and buries his head in her knees.

Safe from the monster. 

Until she picks him up, walks him back into the center of the room, where his dad is recovering, and the metal table stands ominously. He clings to her, small hands twisting her shirt into clumps, as she tries to pass him back off to his dad.

“No… daddy’s trying to make my arms catch on fire!”

“Peter,” says Richard. And it’s his voice again. Calm, light, warm. He puts a hand on his shoulder, and Peter flinches, buries his face into his mom. “Do you really think I would do that to you? You’re my son. You’re special. Never. I could never do that to you. This is medicine. Like when you go to the doctor and he gives you a shot to keep you from getting sick.”

He lifts his head and considers his dad. There’re small drops of blood oozing from his eye, the one behind the broken lense, but both eyes flicker back and forth from a wild, dead look that scares him to the warm look that’s familiar from home. 

“I don’t want medicine. You’re not a doctor…”

Richard sighs, and diverts his attention to his wife. “You’ll have to hold him down.”

“Richard… are you sure…about this?”

“When you work with the kind of people I do, you can’t take any risks.”

“The obvious solution is not to work with those kind of people…” 

“Just hold him down, Mary. It’s for his own good. I’m just trying… trying to make sure my inventions can never be used against him. He’ll cry right now, but he won’t even remember in a few days. It’s part of the toxin. It makes things fuzzy.”

It’s a long few seconds before Mary agrees, and when she relents, Peter gives up. Goes slack in her arms as she climbs up on the metal table with him, holds him in her lap and stretches out his arm. He doesn’t cry, though. Doesn’t want his dad to be right, so when he comes close with the needle, when it pinches into his arm, he turns the sting in his eye into fire and glares straight up at him, even after it’s done and over and the needle isn’t inside him anymore.

His arms aren’t what turn to fire. 

His stomach ignites, twists in a white-hot pain that makes him gasp out loud, and then there’s nothing. Nothing at all.

 

 

Peter wakes up hot and sweaty, nestled against his mom and as he comes to, he’s aware they’re moving. The noise, the way they’re being tossed and bumped around, tell him they’re in their rickety, old car. It’s not doing any favors for his stomach, though the pain has subsided from fire knives to a dull nausea. The typical kind that usually accompanies the stomach flu. He lifts his eyes, looks up at his mom, who smiles back and runs a hand through his gross, sweaty hair.

“Are you feeling better?” 

He ignores the question, eyes drifting to a waste bucket on the floor, dirty with vomit. It’s his, he’s sure, but he doesn’t remember throwing up.

“…why did you and daddy make me sick?”

“I thought you said he wouldn’t remember anything?”

“It’ll forget with time,” says Richard, up in the front seat, behind the wheel.

Mary turns her face back down. “We didn’t, baby. You have… food poisoning, remember? I keep telling daddy he needs to clean up his diet, but he insisted on stopping at that diner.”

“What?” Peter’s voice is hoarse, barely a whisper, from exhaustion, from disbelief. “…No…daddy he… he’s a bad person. He hurt that boy.”

He tries to catch his dad’s reaction in the rearview mirror, but his eyes are set straight ahead, on the road in front of them, not at all concerned about what’s happening in the backseat. It’s the look in his eyes that make Peter remember. Just bits and pieces, but they’re enough for him to hold onto the fact he’s being lied to. By his parents. By his superheroes.

“Listen to me very carefully,” says Mary. “That was a very, very bad dream – “ 

“-No, we were in a room with a glass cage and there was a boy who played cars with me and dad – “

“-A nightmare.”

“No, it wasn’t…. why are you lying to me?”

Mary’s answer is cut off by a sudden need for the waste bucket. His head goes inside, he heaves, throwing up nothing. There’s nothing more to throw up, as she rubs his back, as the car rolls forward and Peter is suddenly not five-years-old anymore, but wise enough to realize parents are just grown-ups, too.

Some grown-ups just aren’t to be trusted. The man in the white-coat is one of them. But so is his dad. So is his mom.

“I just want to go home,” says Peter, once he’s done.

“We’re going… I promise… we’re on our way.”

But that’s not what he means. Not this time. Home isn’t their apartment in Queens. It’s back before stepping into that giant room and playing with the boy his father insists isn’t really a boy. It’s back when red was the fastest color and being the fastest was Peter’s biggest concern. Back when his dad abandoned them to help other people, not hurt them, but they can’t go back there. Home isn’t home when he knows the way things really are.  

 

Present Day

 

As soon as Peter’s feet hit the ground, as soon as his smile fades from the joy of finally sticking the landing and he cuts the web away, slinging it back into the sky, he’s with an ache. A deep, heavy one. He turns his face straight up, trying to see the balcony he jumped from, trying to get one last look, but he can’t. It’s too high.

He’s afraid he’ll never get back there.

Not when he’s caught between the fear in his heart and this raw ache tearing into his entire chest.

“Nice trick.”

Peter spins on his heel. Bucky towers over him, and there’s a very brief flash of indignant anger, before he lets go of a breath. It’s a relief, if he’s honest, to have someone else making the choice for him. If it’s the wrong one, he won’t have to blame himself, and he’s perfectly fine with placing blame on Bucky.

“Why is it always you?”

“I had a hunch.”

“Well you don’t have to manhandle me this time,” says Peter. “I’ll come quietly.”

“I’m not here to force you to come back.”

“You’re not?” Peter raises an eyebrow at him. His question is meant to catch the angle. There’s always an angle and he’s always determined, no matter what the situation, to figure out what is it.

“No. Just wanted to wish you luck.” 

“Oh, well, thanks.”

Peter eyes him suspiciously as he takes a few steps backwards, deciding he’s going to call Bucky on his bluff. He spins back around, walks straight forward and doesn’t look back. When the street ends, when there’s a choice to turn or cross the street, he turns and stays there, pressed up against the building. Waits seconds. Waits minutes. Bucky doesn’t show. 

He peaks his head around the corner and sees him. He’s standing still, both feet planted firmly on the ground, in the exact same place Peter left him. With a frown, a little more indignant anger stirring in him, he whirls back around, and marches over to Bucky. What should have been a chase through New York City turns into a staring match, until it catches up with Peter that he isn’t actually angry, has no energy for it, so he lets go of other breath and looks away, down, at the sidewalk.

“I know what you’re doing,” says Peter. “I know what reserve psychology is… you didn’t trick me.”

“And yet, here you are, standing in front of me.”

“I… I never really wanted to run away… obviously… I just…um, had a brief lapse in judgement?”

Or whatever it’s called when he spazzes out and lets panic completely take over his actions. He doesn’t add on the part about being with indecision until he realized there was no one chasing him, until the decision to stay was truly his again, and it became obvious he couldn’t leave. Just couldn’t keep moving forwards into the darkness, alone, or that ache in his chest might have gotten bigger and swallowed him completely.

Living with the fear, he thinks, may be worth it if he doesn’t have to do it alone.

“Obviously,” says Bucky. Gracious enough not to push the subject any further. “And I was wrong, you know. Turns out this wasn’t just about Stark’s ego… Just a scheme for Tony to hide he has actual emotions. He does care about you. I was just blinded by the past.”

“You got one of those?”

“Everyone does.” He looks up at the sky, and there’s nothing shining back down at the, In the city, it’s always a bad night for stargazing. “You ruined the stars for me, by the way.” 

Peter looks up too. The past isn’t up there anymore. At least not Peter’s. It’s here and present and weaved into every part of him, for better or for worse. Just brief images survived the travel through space and time. Images of a lab, of broken glasses, of seeing a boy get turned into an experiment, of looking at his dad in the rearview mirror and seeing nothing staring back at him. Feelings survived more than pictures. Disappointment. Terror of his own dad. A blinding pain in his stomach and the fear of all those things might come for him a second time. 

A day he does remember vividly, right down to the ocean water licking his bare feet and the salt in the air, is the day he spent in Coney Island with May and Ben. Sometime, probably a few days after, his parents died, they stood on the shore and watched the sun disappear behind the horizon.

He held May’s hand, and said, “I wish mom could be here.”

Richard had been omitted on purpose. Spiteful even at nine, hoping the man could perhaps hear him from beyond the grave. 

City sounds, traffic and chattering of people passing by and horns honking bring him back to reality.

“I think maybe you were right too,” says Peter, thinking out loud. He does his best thinking out loud. “Shouldn’t spend so much time looking at it…” And saying his thoughts out loud make him realize by working so hard to hold it back, he’s been fixated on it this entire time. “Just maybe look at it, to see what it really is, to move on and learn. 

Bucky nods. “Can’t let them control you.”

“Them?”

“It. I meant it. Can’t let the past control you.”

Peter pauses. Thinks maybe them and the past might be the same for Bucky, and maybe they have more common ground than he originally thought. Peter isn’t the only one who sometimes gets up in the middle of the night and needs to take a walk, to feel the fresh air on his face, to feel free.

“Bucky,” says Peter. “Can you just… take me back to Tony, please?”

Bucky beckons for him to lead the way and follows him closely as they head back into the building. Peter doesn’t need an escort. He’s not a runaway. He owes that to Bucky. He knows the way back, but it’s starting to sink in, he’s just a kid. One who hates to be alone, and has been alone, for a very long time.

Minutes later they’re stepping out of the elevator and into the penthouse, where Steve, Tony, and Nat stuck their heads up. Nobody asks where they were, or why Peter wasn’t in his bedroom where he was supposed to be, as they join them. Peter sits down on the couch, in the vast space between Tony and Nat, while Bucky joins Steve by the full windows looking out at the city.

Peter tilts his head at Nat. “When did you get here?”

Instead of answering him, she hands him his phone his watch.

“This is getting to be quite the routine.”

“Won’t be after tonight,” says Peter, feeling oddly light, and when he catches Tony’s eyes on him, clasps the watch back around his wrist. Trying to win favor. Still engaging in his mission of getting to go on the actual mission. “You won’t even have to babysit me at school anymore, and I’ll get to go wherever I want without having to sneak around.”

Steve’s doubtful and pained expression is highlighted by the city lighting streaming through the window.

“Easy there, Magellan,” says Tony. “ _Wherever_ is a generous interpretation of what we talked about. You’re still fourteen.”

“So, I’m still going to have to sneak around?”

Peter looks around, but none of the Avengers seem very impressed by his comment.

“What? I’m just trying to be realistic,” he says, with a shrug.

“Jesus Christ,” says Tony, looks away to fiddle with his phone, then looks back at him pointedly. “I’m getting you chipped.” 

“Like a dog?”

“If you’re gonna act like a dog off the leash for the first time, you’ll get treated like one.”

Peter sinks back into the couch cushions, pretends to pout, but knows that’s not something Tony would actually do to him, given his history. Makes him confused by how he could let his brain trick him into freaking out and jumping out of a window, how he could ever think for a second the man who let him cry all over him instead of yelling at him would morph into a monster the same way his dad had.

Tony is not his father. And maybe that’s the point. That they don’t share blood, but Tony treats him like a son anyway. The pretending stopped a long time ago. He doesn’t share blood with any of the other three Avengers, either, but they saved him anyway. Are still saving him, even when he wants them to go away.

Those aren’t things Richard Parker would do, and Peter remembers, for the first time, his dad did love him. Loved him in the same way someone loves an arm or a leg. Because it’s an extension of himself. A useful product. A reflection of himself to be shown off. Not as a person all on his own.

He didn’t understand that when he was five, or seven, or nine, but he sees it now. Sees it for what it is and not what it was. And he doesn’t like it. Never thought he’d have so much in common with Harry Osborn.

More so now that he’s trapped in a nightmare Richard helped build and Norman funds. 

He turns to Tony again, about to ask why they’re all sitting around when earlier he was being pushed to pack a bag, when FRIDAY answers his question.

“Boss, Mr. Osborn has arrived in the lobby.”

Tony looks back at Peter, and he sighs, knowing exactly what that look means.

“I guess I’m going to my room now,” says Peter.

“Bingo,” says Tony. “And this time actually pack your bag.”

He goes quietly. That’s his new tactic. Polite compliance. He hopes maybe if Tony isn’t moved by pity and lies, he’ll be moved by that. It’s one he hasn’t tried yet, at least, but it doesn’t mean he actually has to go to his room. Just make the appearance he’s there. If he stands outside his bedroom door, he can hear perfectly fine what’s going on in the living room. Tony doesn’t even have to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will always be the one that got deleted at 5k words cause I switched to a MacBook and still haven't figured out how to use it. It got recovered but oh my god, I almost had a heart attack for ten minutes straight. Anyways, thanks so much for reading!! Next chapter we're jumping back to having Tony POV scenes (I know that hasn't happened for awhile) and we're catching up with Harry! 
> 
> As always, you guys in the comments are always perfect and amazing! The fact that anyone is reading anything I write is amazing on it's own, some of these comments literally kill me with kindness. Thanks so much!


	20. hook or me this time

  1. hook or me this time



Peter flips his tennis shoes off his feet, and kicks them inside his bedroom, while he stands on the outside. He sits in the hallway by his door, scoots his back against the wall, and prepares for a campout. Ready to listen in and discover what has brought Norman Osborn to the Stark penthouse during the evening’s later hours. He’s lucky Tony’s soundproofing technology only extends to his bedroom, and only when the door is shut. There are plans to improve it, make it more secure and more customizable, but for now, it’s a system that’s easily exploited.

It’s not fair. Tony’s insistence to level the playing field. One of the benefits of having screwed-up DNA is being able to hear things he shouldn’t, but Tony is determined to make him into a normal kid, at least as much as he’s able.

It falls into the category of strange things Peter both appreciates and finds frustrating, at the same time, and he accepts that now. Opposite emotions coexisting without a war, mixed together in harmony instead, sort of like when the sun shines through the rain. Not everything goes into that category though. No rule is absolute, and so it’s still unfathomable to imagine his father loved enough to attempt to save him from his unknown but ultimately fated future, and at the same time, caused that future to be possible in the first place.

One of them is a lie, or both actions undo the other. He hasn’t decided yet.

Peter strains his ears, zeroes in on what’s happening in the penthouse’s common area, and immediately, his grand idea about listening in to the conversation with Norman is crushed into a million pieces.

“Alright,” says Tony. Peter hears the crinkling of the leather as he stands from the couch and his aggressive footsteps marching off towards the direction of the bar. “Who wants to watch the kid?”

Peter lets out an annoyed breath. Tony always knows, and it’s impossible to get away with anything. Between big brother FRIDAY who’s always watching and Tony’s ability to predict his actions, it’s like living in _1984_.

“I don’t think he’ll be jumping off anymore balconies any time soon,” says Bucky.

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t scurrying around in the hallways, eavesdropping his way right into our private conversation.” He’s pouring something. Whiskey, probably, and Peter hears the smooth liquid running over Tony’s usual three or four ice cubes, all four crackling as the drink settles.

“Maybe you should give him the benefit of the – “

“-FRIDAY where is Peter right now?”

“Peter is sitting in the hallway outside his bedroom.”

A distinctly disappointed sigh comes from Steve, and there’s a flicker of guilt somewhere in Peter’s chest, even as he formulates his next plan to get his way. It must be torture to live life wanting to believe the best in people only to be constantly letdown. Suspicion is safety. Peter understands, and Tony does, too. They understand each other this way, although sometimes he wishes they understood each other less, then maybe he could actually pull one over on him.

“FRIDAY tell Tony I don’t need any more babysitters and I’m going to my room and shutting the door.”

FRIDAY relays the information, then Tony’s skeptical voice is back to shatter his dreams. 

“Oh, and did he?" 

“Negative.”

Peter groans, throws his head back and stretches against the wall, before ultimately giving up and standing up.

“Thanks a lot, FRIDAY,” he says, as he walks into his room and shuts the door.

 “You’re welcome.” 

Tony should really program the stupid thing to understand sarcasm at the rate it’s thrown around in this home.

Peter walks past his shoes strewn haphazardly on the floor. He doesn’t bother picking them up, but instead goes for his laptop before getting comfortable on the couch. His mismatched socks disappear when he brings his knees up and uses them as a prop to keep his computer in place in front of his face.

His door opens, and his head pops up from behind his computer. Nat and Bucky enter his room before shutting the door behind them. He ducks back down behind his screen. 

“Oh, it’s you two,” says Peter. “I was wondering who’d get stuck watching me. Didn’t you guys want to stick around and see what the old man had to say?”

“Nah,” says Nat. She appears above him, behind the couch and looks down at him. “You’re better company.”

Peter smiles, toothy and genuine, something that transcends his current situation of being shoved aside, sent to his bedroom and sidelined in his own story. “You’re just trying to make me feel better about being babysat.”

“Maybe,” she tells him. There’s nothing in her voice explaining where that maybe leans, if she’s with him or against him and the ambiguity annoys him. She treads across the floor, feet sinking into the carpet light and without sound, and sits in the recliner. Tony’s recliner. It feels wrong to see her there and not him. “If you want to be trusted, try being trustworthy. Jumping off balconies and sneaking around in hallways don’t qualify.”

Peter rolls his eyes, then turns them towards Bucky, looking for some support or maybe even some rescue from a lecture. He’s not getting any help there, though. Bucky is hovering around near the bean bag chair, awkwardly scanning every corner of Peter’s room with a dazed and confused expression. He wonders if his confusion is related to Peter’s own confusion, his own thoughts that are attempting to make sense of when he started looking at Bucky to shield him from being lectured at.

Maybe he misjudged him at first. Maybe they misjudged each other, the same way him and Tony have mutual understanding, but Peter thinks it’s more likely Bucky has been on his side the entire time and he just didn’t have the eyes to see it.

“And you’re trustworthy?” He shuts the laptop, moves it carefully aside down on the floor and flops on his belly, so he faces her.

She shrugs. “To my friends.” 

“We’re friends, right?”

“Why don’t I like where this is going…”

“He wants our help,” says Bucky. “Convincing Tony to let him go with us.” 

“He won’t even let you be in the same room as Norman, what makes you think you’ll change his mind about that?”

“I just thought if you guys were on my side – “ 

“But we’re not. We agree with him,” says Bucky. Another look of confusion crosses his face, then he frowns.

Peter groans, uses the sudden energy to sit up and kick at the air. From the corner of his eye, he sees his red throw blanket and drapes it over his shoulders. It’s always cold in his bedroom, even now that they use heat instead of air conditioning.

“It’s not fair,” he says. “I’m being benched in my own story.”

Nat pops an eyebrow. “Your story?”

“If this were a TV show or a movie, it would definitely be _my_ story.”

“I can’t believe we spent two solid weeks trying to force you to relax and watch movies like a regular teenager and now you can’t get your head out of the clouds.”

Peter pauses and takes a moment to remember the beginning. When all that mattered to him was Norman Osborn research, when he paced back and forth in his room while three avengers sat on the couch and watched TV without him, when Clint tried relentlessly to get him to play video games with him, when his new family were strangers and he was lost. Lost and dead-set on remaining that way, parroting both his mom and dad without realizing it.

But now… things are different. Peter Parker may still be lost to the world, but Peter Stark is real and breathing and alive. Also, they’re the same person. Different and same.

“Come on guys,” says Peter. There’s a whine in his voice now. A desperate one. “Why do you let Tony make all the decisions regarding me?”

“He called you first,” answers Bucky, matter-of-factly. As if it’s obvious, and Peter should have known the answer all along.

“What?”

“It’s true. No way we were walking out of that hellhole that night without you. Tony made up his mind.” 

“Yeah. Cause he knew I know the codes,” says Peter.

“No,” says Bucky. “Before that. I had to listen to him and Steve ‘discussing’ it the whole time we were trapped in that glass.”

“Oh.”

Tony’s stubbornness, his refusal to change his mind once he’s made his decision, is Peter’s current source of unease, his biggest problem, but it’s also what ultimately saved him. Saved his hand.

 “I’m doomed.” 

Doomed to be tucked safely away while everyone else puts their life on the line. Doomed to be just a regular billionaire child with superpowers and Avengers for friends. Doomed to the normal and mundane while everyone around him is fantastic, while something inside himself is wild and powerful. It’s not right to not use them. His powers. He should be able to use this horrible thing forced on him and turn it into something good.

It’s unfair, and it’s the first time Peter’s ever felt completely justified in his frustration with Tony. 

Bucky looks at him with a curiosity. It’s something close to a smile, but whatever it is, it’s decidedly sympathetic to his cause and there’s a spark of hope.

“Plead your case,” he says. Nat looks at him look, a cross between a warning and amusement. “What? No harm in just hearing him out.”

Nat shrugs and settles into Tony’s recliner. She disagrees. It’s evident from her body language, from her expressions, but she’s letting Bucky make his own mistakes. Peter can appreciate that. He’s about to exploit it. 

* * *

“I underestimate him,” says Steve. “I forget sometimes how…”

He trails off, looking for the right word, and Tony has a few suggestions. 

“-Devious? Sneaky? Manipulative?”

“Right.”

Tony looks down at his drink and shuffles the ice around. “Yeah well he doesn’t mean to be. It’s how he copes with being told no. He doesn’t particularly like hearing that word.”

“Sounds familiar.” 

They both turn their attention towards the elevator. Anticipating the person who will next walk into the penthouse. There are a lot of ways Tony thought this night would come about. The night they would finally put an end to Norman Osborn. He never imagined it happening this way. Never thought the man would walk right into his penthouse on a seemingly ordinary fall evening. 

It figures, though, that his predictions have turned out to be so wrong. Life is one unexpected thing right after another, and even more so since slipping down the path of an Oscorp rabbit-hole and stumbling onto New Life Research Facility.

Never expected to walk into that peeling apart building only to walk back out a father. That’s who Peter is, to him, at least. In every way except by blood, but Tony’s never put much stock in that sort of thing anyway. Family is chosen more than it’s given, and at the end of the day, even blood has to make its decisions. 

Family used to be a space in Tony’s life only occupied by Pepper. Before Peter, she was the only person on earth or in space that could invoke that look on Tony’s face. It’s the same look Norman wears as he steps off the elevator and into the dim lighting in the penthouse. He’s a shadow of the man who glides around all day in front of the reporters and cameras, and Tony knows why.

It’s one of the many things him and Norman Osborn have in common. Their sons.

And if Tony is guessing correctly, usually his guesses are correct, Norman is here on behalf of Harry. To ask for their help. Tony gets it.

No one touches Pepper. No one touches Peter, and to the person who ever dares to go after either, well there isn’t anything Tony wouldn’t do, no person he wouldn’t kill, no city he wouldn’t tear apart, and if came to it, if he were helpless like Norman, nobody he wouldn’t resort to asking for help from.

“Stark,” says Norman. He joins them in the bar. Curt, despite his obvious distress. His cold, calculating eyes fall over Steve, and narrow with disgust. “Mr. America…”

“Steve is fine.”

“Let’s get straight to the point,” Norman says. “You’ve been investigating me. You’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, and I know you know all about my – “

“-child torture chamber?” Tony offers. He doesn’t bother changing his position to greet him. He stays slumped over the bar casually, sipping on his whiskey, but he’s at least polite enough to beckon at the bar, offering him a drink. His response is a glare, and Tony takes it as a no.

“Please it’s hardly torture,” says Norman. “Just ask Peter. That is where you got him, correct? Combed through my database and guess who’s face I saw glaring back at me… my spider. You stole him from my facility, hijacked his mind with Avenger’s propaganda and turned him loose in the city. Really think that’s wise, Stark? I’m sure you’ve gathered how powerful he is… how dangerous." 

Tony stays silent. A type of silent more dangerous than any one of Peter’s powers. It builds the fire, fuels the fury, adds momentum to the whirlwind of righteous anger whipping around and through Tony’s insides, to later be directed at the person bold enough to threaten Peter.

“Peter’s not a thing that gets stolen,” says Steve. His righteous anger is less a whirlwind than it is something more controllable. “He’s a child who was kidnapped and experimented on, and that’s a crime which was funded with your cash.”

Norman turns his attention and blinks a couple of times at Steve, with all the air and attitude of a king during addressed by some lowly street peasant.

“That’s exactly what I just said. Minus the child part. He’s not a child. He’s _my_ property. My investment paid for with _my_ cash. No matter how badly Stark here wants to parade him around, pretending he’s his son. He belongs somewhere secure that can contain him. Somewhere his abilities, which _I_ gave him can be studied and put to good use.”

“He doesn’t need to be contained. He’s not dang –“

“Forget it, Cap,” says Tony. He puts his drink down on the bar, freeing up both his hands so he can at least imagine putting Norman on the floor. Where he belongs. “Old man didn’t come over to discuss _my kid_ or to have a custody battle. He came to ask us for our help.” He addresses Norman. “You’re doing a really bad job. Worse if you think you’re going to use letting me keep Peter as a bargaining chip, because there’s no way in hell I’m ever letting him out of my sight while you’re still roaming around with your scientist whack jobs.”

“Actually no,” says Norman. There’s a sick and twisted smile planted on his face. “I had no preconceived notations of you letting go of the spider, however, I do have all sorts of interesting information on him… of his biology. The press would have a lot of fun with it, I’m sure, finding out the Stark heir is also a dangerous mutant created in a lab.” 

“Probably just as much fun when they find out Norman Osborn is responsible for child murders and kidnappings.”

They glare at each other. It’s a stalemate, and both are unwilling to relent.

It’s retroactive. That vortex of anger and vengeance, swirling around and mingling together. Hits him by surprise and all at once. This need to hurt the person not threatening Peter, but the person who has already done that. The man that caused his nightmares. Took his family away. Stole four years of his childhood. It’s retroactive, but Norman still has to pay.

It's so incredibly close. Vengeance for Peter. Standing his penthouse, defenseless, and it’d be so easy and clean. But he can’t do it. Norman doesn’t deserve to die before he lives out many, many years alone in a prison cell.

Steve surprises them both and breaks the silence.

“Go ahead, Osborn,” he says. “Publish whatever papers you want. Peter will survive the press. He’s a strong kid, and he’s more human than you are, so we all know he’ll be alright. You’re in no position to come in and make demands from us. If you want our help, ask for it, if not you can leave, but you just all about admitted to crimes against children. Might want to hop on one of your private jets once you walk out that door.”

It's easy to forget when Peter crashed into their lives, waving a gun around and demanding freedom, they were all there. They all fell for him. Wanted the best for him, even if they all had their own ideas about what that was. It’s clear now, though, and Steve’s right. Tony doesn’t want it to happen. For the world to find out about Peter Parker and all his powers, but he’d survive, and if Tony left the choice up to Peter, he knows what he’d what.

And it wouldn’t be to let Norman blackmail them.

Norman looks away. Shrinks back into a shell of himself. “They took my son.”

“You mean your child experimentation scheme backfired on you? I’m shocked.” 

It’s a truth Tony knows well. Sins of the father will haunt the son. 

Norman ignores Tony’s jab. “They got a little nervous when they saw Peter and Harry together in that damn article, so they decided they’d take Harry as insurance policy. He stays safe as long as the check clears. If the money doesn’t come, well, I’m not sure what they would turn him into.”

Nothing worse than what Norman would turn Harry into if he got the chance to continue to influence him, Tony’s sure.

“I need you to go and retrieve him for me.”

“You’re a businessman, Norman,” says Tony. “You know you can’t get something for nothing.”

“What do you want? I’ll pay… anything.”

“Anything?” 

Norman nods.

“Then I want a confession,” says Tony. “On video. We’ll send it in to Fury and all our friends at SHEILD, and Cap here can take you into custody.”

“There’s no point in having him back if I’m not around…”

“Guess you have a choice to make then. Harry’s freedom or yours.”

Norman’s eyes turn into slits, and Steve shifts around uncomfortably. Tony doesn’t have to explain to Captain America he has no intentions of leaving Harry or any other kid trapped in that nightmare. It’s a bluff, and the very fact Norman misses Steve’s discomfort at even the suggestion of using a child as a tool to be bargained with speaks volume. There’s something so incredibly human missing from him if he doesn’t have the ability to see through this, to have the capability to understand it’d be an awful thing for the Avengers to do to some poor kid, no matter who his family happens to be.

“If you don’t know what to say,” Tony mocks. “Don’t worry about. I’m a nice guy. I’ll write it for you. All you have to do is look at the camera and read.”

“I don’t need a ghostwriter, Stark… I know what to say.”

“Good,” says Tony. That’s a good enough agreement for him. “Just make sure to hit all the stops, you know, kidnapping, child murder, experimenting on minors… oh, and the death of the Parker family.”

That last one is a stab in the dark. He doesn’t put much faith in coincidences, and its fairly obvious Peter’s aunt and uncle were killed by more than just the regular burglar during a home invasion. The plane crash that killed his parents is more ambiguous. That’s Norman style, though.  

“So be it,” says Norman. “But I’m coming with you.”

“Why?” 

“That’s my son in there, Stark. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, since you’re not really a father and all, but I… I at least need to see him again before I’m carted off to whatever prison I’m sent to.” 

Tony isn’t sure he believes him. Doesn’t really believe him and Harry that kind of relationship, or any kind of relationship, for that matter, but he nods anyway. Curiosity getting the better of him. He’s quickly scolded by a look from Steve, before his face transforms into a worried one. It’s never a great sign when the quietly confident Steve has something to be worried about.

A ringtone fills the brief silence, and Norman fishes a phone from his suit jacket.

“It’s them. They said I could have a phone call with Harry.”

“Put it on speaker.”

“And don’t tell him we’re coming,” says Steve. “They can’t know we’re on the way, or he’ll be in even more danger than he already is.”

Norman puts the phone on the table, and answers. “Osborn.” 

Tony frowns. It’s an odd way to greet a kidnapped son. 

“Dad?”

The voice on the other side is calm, collected, almost confident. Harry doesn’t sound the way Tony imagined he would. Not scared or desperate. There’s static in the background, noises of things getting moved around, and it’s obvious the phone Harry is speaking on is also on speaker phone and they aren’t just talking to Harry.

There’re others in the room. Listening.

“Harry…” says Norman. His face seems to be going through several contortions, seems to be fighting for the right words and coming up empty. “Is everything… okay?”

“No dad, it’s not okay. I don’t know where I am, and they’re saying I have to stay here now? Because you need more motivation to pay? Professor Monroe is… acting really weird, and there’s this boy and fire comes out of his arms. This is part of Oscorp? You’re responsible for this… place?” There’s some a pause, some hesitation, before a final conclusion comes. “This is your fault.”

“I’m not taking any responsibility for this,” snaps Norman. “My employees jumped the gun. Got nervous and went rogue. Hardly my fault.”

“Yeah well,” says Harry. There’re a few ripples of static coming through from the other side. “They wouldn’t be your employees if you didn’t employ them so…”

 “And you wouldn’t be stuck there if you’d done what I said and stopped hanging around that boy.”

“Whatever,” says Harry. “Just listen, you don’t have to pay them anything. Just… call Tony Stark, okay? He’ll come take care of this and then you can shut this place down, right? It’s awful… this place… it shouldn’t exist, dad. This is what the Osborn name amounts to?” 

Norman and Tony lock eyes. There’s murder there. Jealousy. Perhaps he’s beginning to realize Peter isn’t the only boy who was stolen from him and filled with Avenger’s propaganda.

“Stark can’t do anything.”

“Yes, he can, he’s Iron – “

“He won’t.”

Tony opens his mouth to make his presence known, to let Harry know he’s coming for him with a team, but Steve catches his attention. He shakes his head, and Tony is reminded Norman is doing the right thing. He’s saying the words that will keep Harry safe.

“And I don’t want him too,” says Norman. “If anyone finds out about this, Harry, I’ll be ruined. Oscorp will be ruined.”

“Dad…” says Harry. “I don’t want to stay here forever.”

“I’m sorry, son,” says Norman. “You have no choice. I’m sending them money, and that will buy you another month.”

“You’re a coward,” says Harry, and the line goes dead.

* * *

Tony stands outside Peter’s bedroom. More hesitating. Another deliberation battling out in his head. Another internal debate. Walking into that room means walking back into the argument. He knows Peter well enough to know he’s nowhere near finished fighting for the chance to go with them. Peter fights. That’s what he does. Fights until all options are depleted and he’s forced to accept his situation. It’s admirable, but Tony wishes he would stop fighting him so much, wonders if he ever will, or if this is just what having a teenager is like.

He’s unsure if he can handle it. At least on this particular night. He isn’t sure if he’s strong enough to go into that bedroom and keep telling him no, when there’s a part of him that thinks maybe he should allow the boy to tag along. To witness the destruction of the place that’s caused him so much trauma. In therapy they call it closure. He’s learned that from his chats with Catherine, but Tony is also sure this isn’t exactly what the psychology textbooks have in mind.

This is dangerous, and Tony won’t put Peter in danger. Not again. He holds on to that as he opens the door to Peter’s bedroom and steps through. He lingers in the threshold for a second, watching Peter as he sits between Bucky and Nat on the couch. As he provides forward, he notices all three sets of eyes are glued on the TV screen and controllers are being worked furiously.

Whatever they’re playing, Tony hopes Peter is winning. 

“How’d it go?” asks Nat. She doesn’t look away from the TV.

“Good,” says Tony. “He gave a full confession.”

“Really?” asks Peter. He abandons the game and the controller falls slack on the floor. He rearranges himself on the couch, so he sits on his knees and faces backwards to look at Tony. 

“Yup.”

Details aren’t needed. Tony doesn’t need to mention he’s just witnessed Norman Osborn look straight into a camera and talk frankly about his crimes without the slightest bit of hesitation or remorse. He talked more easily about his crimes than he did to his distressed, kidnapped son. That, in itself, is too haunting to be stated out loud.

“So… he’s going away,” says Peter. “To prison.”

Tony puts a hand on top of his head. It’s a mop of messy brown hair and in desperate need of being cut. Again. “Yes.”

“Seems too easy,” says Peter, with a frown.

He tells Nat and Bucky to get lost, and Peter watches them file out of the room like he’s never going to see them again. Tony walks around the couch and sits down next to him, causing him to break away his attention from the now empty doorway.

“Are you mad?” His words are hesitant and slow.

“No.”

It gets quiet, and that reminds Tony to take a breath. Slow things down. There are many things that are urgent at the moment, so many things that need his attention, but they wait long enough for them to have this conversation, for Tony to be the man for Peter that he wishes Howard had been for him. 

“You said you got your memories back earlier, and we never got the chance to talk about it. Uh, how are you doing with that?”

Peter’s frown deepens, and he folds down from sitting on his knees to sitting on one of his legs instead. It doesn’t look comfortable, but it’s been an aching long time since Tony’s been a teenager. And he’s never been part spider.

“I jumped off the balcony,” says Peter, informative. He pauses, then looks away. “I just… remember bits and pieces, really. Like that blinding pain in my stomach, the same one I had when you were prying the tracker from my wrist, and my mom told me it was food poisoning, but it wasn’t. My dad… he gave me this shot and that’s what made me sick, almost like – “

“A vaccination?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It didn’t do any good, though. It didn’t save me. My metabolism and healing factor did.”

“Sounds like he at least tried – “ 

“-He invented the poison that kept me a prisoner. I… saw kids fall over and die because of that stuff.”

“I’ve never heard you talk about that before.”

Peter leans forward, and his eyes met Tony’s. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making up for all the bad things he did.”

“The hell you are.”

Tony has better plans for him. Graduation. Seeing him go off to MIT. Living a happy life. But catching Peter’s face makes him realize he’s using that tone again. The one that sounds like yelling even when that’s not how he means to sound.

He slows down again. Takes another breath and softens his tone. “That isn’t your responsibility.”

Peter shrugs and withdraws anyway. He looks away. His thumbs start a war with themselves, and Tony realizes they aren’t going any further with this conversation. But the debate in his own head starts back up again as he watches Peter. No matter how much he likes to pretend Peter is a normal boy, he isn’t. He can hold his own in a fight. He can do serious damage, but at the same time, he’s still fragile. His mind and spirit more than his body.

“So, let’s hear them,” says Tony. He only elaborates when Peter looks at him questioningly. “You’re closing arguments.” 

“Oh,” he says. “I was kind of hoping Bucky and Nat would be here for that.”

“And why’s that?”

“They agree with me that I should get to go,” says Peter. 

“Oh, they do? The same two people who had a problem with me enrolling you in school think it’s a good idea to send you on an actual mission?” 

Peter nods, like it’s no big deal, and sends Tony over the edge. He’s prompted, by that whirlwind of protective energy, to grab him by the elbow and yank him from the couch. They march across the room, but Tony’s angry demonstration is interrupted by almost falling to his death. He trips over a badly placed shoe, Peter steadies him and sheepishly apologizes, while Tony waits for him to put them back on his feet. Why he ever took them off in the first place, knowing they were about to leave, is a question they don’t need to argue about in this particular moment.

Tony gets another good grip on him as they make their way into the hallway. He needs to hold onto him now they’re about to be in the same room as Norman. 

“Let me see if I heard this correctly,” says Tony, when they arrive in front of Nat and Bucky. It also gets Steve’s attention and he leaves Norman by himself at the bar, staring into the table. “The two of you, both former assassins – “

“-wait, really?” Peter is trying half-heartedly to wiggle away from his grip, but he tightens it.

“-have let my fourteen-year-old manipulate you into thinking sending him with us on a mission is a good idea?” 

“He makes a compelling case,” says Nat, with a shrug. She doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic, and it bothers him.

“And he didn’t manipulate us,” Bucky clarifies. “That shit doesn’t work on me.” 

Tony glares at both of them, then turns to Peter.

“Alright, you have your backup. Out with it. Closing arguments.” 

“You need me to administer the antidote to the kids. They won’t take it from you guys. They won’t trust you, you know? Adults can’t be trusted. It’s a rule you live by or die by when you’re locked up there.”

Tony studies him. “Sounds like something you made up.”

“Because it  _is_ something I made up. They’ll trust me, and it’ll just… make things easier, faster, if I go.”

If the rest of the kids there are like Peter, he’s right. It took way too long to get the boy to listen to him when they first met, but Tony also knows this isn’t about trust. Not this time. It’s the vehicle Peter is using to get his way. This is about undoing his father’s mistakes. It’s about closure. Tony wishes he could give it to him. Maybe if he gets it out of his system now with undoing the big thing, all this talk about responsibility will go away and Peter can live normally, but one look at Norman tells Tony taking Peter along is an impossibility.

“I’m sorry, Pete. It’s not going to happen,” says Tony. “Even if I thought this was a solid plan, I can’t be there to watch out for you. I’m gonna be too busy with Norman.”

“He can come with me,” says Bucky, and Tony reflects on the days him and Peter didn’t get along. He’d like those back. “We can handle distributing the antidote.”

“Spider-kid and Bucky save the children. I like it,” says Nat.

Tony glowers at both of them, releases a breath that sounds more like a growl, and begins a sentence he’s sure he’s going to regret.

“Look at me,” says Tony. Peter looks back at him, innocent and blank. “You stay with Bucky. The whole time. No wandering away. No ‘accidentally’ getting separated. No excuses got it?” 

Peter grins and nods, while Tony tries not to have a heart attack.

“And don’t tell Pepper.”

“I won’t.”

“And you,” says Tony. He points an aggressive finger at Bucky. Already hating him. Already blaming him for the imaginary things in his head he’s sure are going to go wrong. “Anything happens to him on your watch I’ll rip that stupid arm off you and beat you with it.”

“Tony.”

Steve beckons for him to follow him over by the windows. He orders Peter, who rolls his eyes in response, to stay near Bucky and Nat and away from Norman who’s still sitting stiffly and absent-mindedly over at the bar, before he follows Steve.

“I don’t like this.”

“Yeah, I don’t either,” says Tony. “But I think it’ll help – “

“-Not Peter. He’ll be safe with Bucky,” says Steve. He nods towards Norman. “He’s up to something.”

Tony is counting on it. It’s risky, but if there’s any more secrets left to be found at New Life, Norman knows where to look for them. That’s not something Tony can pass up, and also, he’s looking for any excuse to do some damage to him before he gets chucked behind bars. There’s no harm in letting Norman Osborn dig himself a deeper grave.

* * *

“Home sweet home,” sings the boy with the fire hands.

Not everyone here has names, and Harry wishes that were different.

He stares at his new… room? Closet is a more appropriate term. In fact, he feels his closet back in his real room might be bigger, and the sleeping bag Norman got him for a camping trip they never went on is more appealing than what’s supposed to be a bed. Really, it’s just a metal frame with a thin mattress, but Harry has trouble calling that a mattress. 

“What’s wrong? Not good enough for the rich boy?”

“It’s fine,” says Harry. He has no desire to stand here and argue with this other boy, who he suspects might be a little insane from captivity, and who might have actually killed Peter if Harry hadn’t distracted him.

He plays with the strap on Peter’s bookbag. He still has it. They haven’t taken it away, or even search through it, and that makes Harry wonder about his dad’s ability to hire intelligent people. Of course, it isn’t the only oddity of his father’s life on his mind. In a way, he’s accomplished his mission. He’s found what he’s been searching for. Evidence his dad is more than a few steps past just being a bad person. 

Fire-hands mutters something under his breath and leaves him. The metal door shuts with a screech. It’s a sound Harry doesn’t want to get used to.

He puts five minutes between fire-hands leaving and the dumping of Peter’s bookbag. Textbooks, notebooks, a few broken pens and some electronic he called a signal jammer crash to the floor. Nothing useful. He puts his hand inside, in case there’s something that didn’t fall out, and grabs ahold of a few spare papers. The Oscorp logo is printed at the top, and after looking them over, there’s no doubt in Harry’s mind they came from Norman’s office.

It’s a weird feeling of betrayal. Finding out about Peter’s lies. He’s not hurt. He understands, but at the same time, wishes their friendship had been real. Norman’s fault. Everything bad in Harry’s life is Norman’s fault. Peter can’t be blamed. From what he’s heard so far from vague, taunting statements, Peter is just another one of his father’s victims.

His eyes continue staring at the paper. It’s an invoice for something, but when he looks at it closer, it looks more like an invoice for _someone_. Experiment Number One: Michael Mitchell. There’s a number with lots of zeroes listed beside his name, and Harry can’t tell if whoever the invoice is made out to is paying for a person or for the experiment performed on said person. He carefully folds it and slips it into his pocket for safe-keeping.

He’s going to hand it over to Tony Stark when he comes to rescue him. Thinking things through, in a calm, rational way, thinking for himself, despite what his father told him over the phone, Harry has no doubt help is on the way. Peter wouldn’t do that to him. Tony wouldn’t, either.

But that doesn’t mean he has to sit around and wait for them to arrive. He’s tired of doing that. Letting other people write his story. He looks at the door, wonders where all the power in this place is hidden, and feels compelled to search for it. Maybe just to see it himself. The kind of power that turns regular, invisible kids into people who can do extraordinary things. It’s calling to him, and that’s the only thing he’s thinking about when he opens the metal door and steps out into the dark hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annndd that's chapter 20. I'm gonna try to have the remaining 4 chapters uploaded by November, but every time I say something like that (or even think it because I'm probably cursed) something dramatic happens at work and it gets delayed, so I'll just say that's my plan with my fingers crossed. 
> 
> And I'm just so thankful people are reading this story! You guys are awesome! And everyone leaving kudos and commenting and subscribing! You guys are awesome too! 
> 
> New chapter Wednesday! (I hope, at least!!)


	21. peter the avenger!

  1. peter the avenger!



“That’s a superpower?” questions Peter, and Scott Lang appears properly offended, taken back, and it’s evident even in the darkness of the Quinjet as it soars through the night’s sky. “How is that helpful to anyone?”

Tony’s going to miss this. The seemingly clueless and effortless way Peter delivers an insult, without really meaning too, and with stunning accuracy. It will fade away with age. With self-awareness and growing up, and with real-life experiences that will bring him to realize even Ant-Man, as absurd as it seems, has a place with the Avengers. Tony is old enough to recognize they needed everyone, all the help they can get, but he’s also proud enough not to say it out loud. 

“It’s not. We only let him join cause Sam felt sorry for him,” says Tony.

“I like you better without your mini-me, Stark.” 

“Speak for yourself,” mutters Bucky.

Tony and Peter share a grin, and Scott’s expression darkens further.

It’s a nice moment, but it doesn’t ease the tension. At least not for Tony. There’s another benefit of Peter’s youthful insolence. Or maybe it’s arrogance. Whatever belief he has that has lead him to believe his superpowers make him invincible. It’s hard to forget even mutants are fragile and human with Norman Osborn sitting nearby. He’s too close to Peter for Tony to be completely comfortable, even if he has planted himself between the two of them. 

Bucky sits on Peter’s other side. He remains stoic and still even when the Quinjet jolts in the sky, causing everyone else to be tousled and startled. Peter gets thrown into Tony’s side, quickly apologizes, and straightens back out. It’s against the rules. The apology. But Tony lets it slide as he watches Peter look around the jet while they descend to the ground.

His eyes are full of stars, and Tony doesn’t know how long it will take, how much the boy can take, before he snaps. Before youthful insolence is wiped away by death, by seeing death. It’s a miracle that hasn’t already happened.

Peter’s seen more death than most adults by now.

And that makes it worse. Sometimes it only takes one push at the wrong time. One push to knock someone over the edge and change them forever. Put them on a path to an abnormal life. Like Tony’s. Like the rest of the Avenger’s. Peter gets closer and closer to that every day, and Tony makes a promise, only to himself, that is the last time he allows him into a situation that brings him closer to it.

Closer to the place that makes normalcy impossible.

All of them clamber out of the jet, and Tony splits his attention between keeping an eye on Norman and keeping an eye on Peter, who sprints away farer than Tony’s comfortable with into the grassy field. Clint’s landed them far enough away from the facility for them to be easily cloaked, both by technology and by darkness.

Tony catches up with Peter. They’re both standing on a small hill, looking at the facility up ahead. A familiar expression falls across Peter’s face. It’s the same one he had while Scott explained to him what kind of powers Ant-Man has.

Unimpressed.

“It’s so small,” says Peter. “I’ve never seen it from the outside looking in before.”

“Changing your perspective changes everything,” says Steve, approaching them with a black backpack in his hands. He helps Peter into it, the bag with all the antidotes in it, and Tony adjusts his attention back to the research facility.

Peter’s right. The building is small. For what it is, anyway, and the room with the glass cage is easily recognizable. It’s a short and wide, as if at some time it were separate of the rest of the building, which is narrow and is stacked upward several stories into the sky.

“Hey kid,” says Tony. He ignores Steve, and Bucky who’s the newest arrival to their small meeting on the hill. Tony takes off his watch, the gauntlet watch, and hands it out for Peter. “Take this." 

Hesitantly, he takes it, turns it over in his hands, before looking back up at Tony.

“I know,” says Tony. “Superpowers. You have superpowers. I got it, alright? This makes me feel better, so just take it and wear it, okay?” He makes his voice lower, quieter, and puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I would ever forgive myself if something happened to you.”

He cracks a carefree, innocent smile and does what he’s told, adding the watch to the wrist with the single web-shooter attached. “No one’s dying tonight, I promise.” 

It’s a promise he can’t keep. Not even Avengers wield power over life and death, and besides that, it’s not death Tony’s worried about. Not death all on its own. He pushes that thought away, and he distracts himself with another problem.

“That arm is a little crowded, don’t you think?”

Peter gives him a slow, deliberate sign and stares at him.

“Right,” says Tony, and he’s wondering if he should give up trying to get him over being a one-handed Spiderling. “Well it was worth a shot.” 

Peter looks at him one last time, before stepping in stride beside Bucky, as the two of them make their way from the hill and towards the building looming off in the distance. It’s the part of the plan Tony hates most. They go in first while the rest of them wait outside for the signal that all the kids are in the clear, so none of the morons who run the place have a chance to hit a kill all button. He hates the idea of Peter being in that building without him, so he stands and watches Bucky and Peter get smaller and smaller, until they’re dots, until he can’t even see them anymore.

“They grow up so fast, don’t they?” Norman joins them on the hill. “One minute they’re getting bit by spiders in your lab, and the next they’re off to destroy the very place and people that gave them the gifts they possess in the first place. That’s teenagers for you. Never appreciative.”

“I wonder if Harry will be appreciative if crazy scientist number one decides to pull the trigger and give Harry some powers of his own,” says Nat, closely following him, along with Clint.

Only Scott Lang stands back, near the jet, on his phone. Probably getting an ETA on the rest of the team. They will arrive soon. Backup to help deal with hauling the kids to the compound. Or with anything else that could go wrong. 

“Who knows?” Norman says, with a shrug. “But then again I didn’t send my son in there willingly. Wouldn’t that be an irresponsible thing for a father to do? Send their son into a place deemed dangerous enough for the Avengers to shut down?”

Tony clenches his jaw. It’s a head game. Words are the last, desperate weapon Norman has left to wield now he’s given away all his secrets on camera. Insight doesn’t stop them from being effective, though, and Tony works furiously to keep his mouth, to stay silent.

“He’ll be fine, Tony,” says Steve. “He’s not alone, and Bucky won’t let him out of his sight.”

Tony nods. He may not like Bucky, wouldn’t trust that man with his own life, but he can be trusted with Peter’s. It’s a certainty. One of the only few Tony knows for sure. Any of them would die for that boy. All of them, if it ever comes to that.

“Did you remember the sleeves?” asks Nat. “For our friend with the fire.”

“In the jet,” says Tony. 

He’s never designed anything to naturalize a child before, but the guilt he felt as he designed and built it completely erased the moment he saw the burns on Peter’s arms. He’ can’t be reasoned with. He’ll have to be taken by force, contained somewhere secure, where he can be rehabilitated or more likely, locked up when he can’t hurt himself or anyone else.

Sometimes people are too far gone to be saved. Tony counts him as one.

Norman heaves a lofty, purposeful sigh, and Tony braces himself. He’s starting to get it. Harry’s speech outside of the principal’s office. There are some people who are just to annoying to avoid punching. Add his crimes to his irritating chatter, and Tony starts to lose the desire to control his fists. 

“I just hope none of the other spiders get lose in the scuffle,” says Norman, and all eyes look dead back at him. “What? You didn’t think there was only one, did you? The spider is my most successful experiment. Why wouldn’t we try to repeat it?”

“There’s more radioactive spiders in there?” asks Steve.

“Of course there are,” says Norman, but Nat’s eyes are narrowed in on him. 

“No there aren’t,” she tells him. “If there were Peter wouldn’t be the only spider-kind running around.”

“Who says he’s the only one?”

They all share looks. Uneasy ones. And it’s apparent how much they take it for granted Peter doesn’t fight them, at least not physically, at least not since the night Bucky had to haul him back up to the suite after he snuck out. Peter doesn’t use his powers. Not against them and not to get his way, but other kids with those same powers… a kid like the fire boy for example, well they would have a hard time dealing with an army of angry spiderlings, waiting and ready to be unleashed on them. 

Peter is at least gentle when he’s not compliant. He can’t imagine it’ll be the same story if they’re others.

“He’s the only one,” says Nat. Her words are certain. Her read on Norman final, and Tony is relieved, but also disappointed.

He still hasn’t quit searching for a reason to get Norman away from everyone else and on the receiving end of his fist.

“If you’re sure,” says Norman. He shrugs. “I’d be willing to show you where they keep them. The spiders. But I guess you’ll have to find out on your own. Or worse. You’ll find out when you set them free and they bite someone else.”

“Name your terms,” says Tony. He avoids the gazes of the rest of his team, but he can feel their stares.

“No terms,” says Norman. “We’ll go inside. Just the two of us and I’ll show you.”

“Tony.”

He ignores Nat.

“I’m going in as Iron Man.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” says Norman.

“Tony,” says Steve. “We need to discuss –“

“Deal,” he says, and Norman smiles. Tony imagines wiping that smile off his face, ignoring the disappointed look from Steve, the fire and fury from Nat, and the refined, calculating confusion, the kind that eventually cuts through the bullshit, from Clint. 

Tony can’t be bothered to care about their opinion, though. Doesn’t mind their judgements. He’s one step closer to being inside the place where Peter is, and another step closer to having a proper excuse and opportunity to knock Norman Osborn around before he’s locked safely behind bars. 

* * *

Harry’s last name is currency, and if he were born into a different time and space, in another universe or another life, he might be royalty. He imagines it would feel the same. What’s the difference, really? The wealthy make the laws. They buy the laws, it could be said, and everyone bows down to money, in one way or another.

Or at least that’s what his father always told him. Where there’s money, there’s power, but Harry’s been rich his whole life and he’s never felt very powerful. Even as he roams the hallway of a place owned by his dad, where he should be practically royalty, he’s still invisible.

Guards walk pass him. They don’t say a word. They don’t ask questions. They don’t try to stop him or send him back to his room. It’s all a little insulting. He’s not actually invisible, and he knows they see him, they know he’s here, but they aren’t really seeing him. Not for him, at least, who he is on the inside. A threat.

Someone who won’t be pushed around anymore. 

Someone they should fear.

Not the way people fear Norman. Harry doesn’t want that. More like the way his father fears Iron Man, because that’s what all his disgust aimed at Tony Stark and the Avengers is masquerading for. Fear. Fear of being drug into the light and found out. It’s something Harry didn’t understand until he started to think about things, until he simply did a Google search and all the pieces started to unravel.

His father… the villain. Harry’s determined to be nothing like him.

“Hey.” 

The voice is gruff and surprised, and Harry’s equally surprised as his eyes land on a guard. Behind him, there’s a glass door with a hint of a mystery behind it.

“What are you doing out of your room?”

Harry shrugs. “I got lost.”

The guard is fresh-faced. Young. Probably just out of high school, or maybe he’s someone who dropped out and made the mistake of working for an Oscorp company.

“Well go back to your room.”

“I’m _lost,_ ” says Harry. “Meaning I don’t know how to get back to my room, genius.”

“Think you’re funny?”

“Not really,” says Harry, with a frown. He doesn’t see where everything he’s said so far could be taken as a joke. 

The guard furrows his brows into a glare, into what he probably thinks is threatening, but it’s sort of cartoonish actually. Harry takes a mental snapshot. It’ll make for a good sketch. If he ever gets out of here. 

“You know, I’d be nicer to me if I were you,” says the guard. “We’re allowed to use force if the subjects give us any lip or attitude.”

It’s the first time Harry feels anything remotely resembling fear since getting to this building, since talking on the phone with his father and having him confirm he’s paying for him to live. This idiot doesn’t know his name. Doesn’t know he’s an Osborn and all the benefits that come with his name.

There’s a brief flash of panic and it’s followed by action. He steps forward, pulls back his fist and sends it spiraling into the guard’s mouth, in one swift movement. He shocked. Too shocked to react like anyone trained to be a guard of anything, and so when he doesn’t fall the way Flash had, Harry pushes him, pushes him with every ounce of frustration that comes with being unseen and ignored.

The follow-through puts the ignorant guard through the door, sending shards of broken glass to the floor along with the man himself. He hits the floor hit, cracking his head on the concrete, and doesn’t get back up. Harry holds his breath, then releases in relief when he sees the guard is still breathing.

He steps into the mysterious room, one slow step after another, and frowns. There’s a metal table sitting in the center of it, with metal shackles and leather straps. It doesn’t take much of Harry’s imagine figuring out what goes on in this room. This is where the Osborn fortune gets put to work. Slicing open and experimenting on kids. Kids like Peter. Kids that could be Harry. In another life.

If the cards were shuffled differently, he may be the one with superpowers, and he wonders if the trauma is worth the reward. Wants to know for himself if all that power is worth being strapped down to a table, worth having two dead parents and some time spent in captivity.

His eyes drift towards an open cabinet filled with vials, and his feet move closer without his brain telling them to do so. All the vials are exactly the same, boring clear liquid, except two near the center. Those two are bright, glowing green, and in-between them, there’s an empty slot. It’s the only empty slot in the entire cabinet, but Harry doesn’t dwell. He picks a green vial, because it stands out among the masses and moves away from the cabinet.

He raises the vial up to examined it, and it seems to sparkle even without light reflecting into it. Power glitters even in the dark, or maybe especially, but Harry’s determined to do something special with his.

He’s an Osborn. This building belongs to him, and in his mind, it gives him every right to burn it down. Turn it to ash. Erase his father’s mistakes and set things right.

The sound of broken glass crunching under shoes whips Harry’s head around. It’s the same boy with blonde hair and dangerous hands, and he smiles.

“That doesn’t belong to you,” he says, then seems to reconsider, “Or maybe it does.”

* * *

 

“Um this way,” says Peter. He walks a few steps forward, Bucky following close behind, then comes to a sudden stop. “No, wait. This way.” 

Peter changes his direction, or at least, he tries to. He doesn’t get very far on his new path before he realizes Bucky isn’t following him. He stops, turns towards him, and waits for an explanation. Peter doesn’t want to say so out loud, but he has no desire to wander away. To be separated from the adult watching him. Now it’s the opposite, and so there’s no moving forward if Bucky isn’t moving forward with him.  

Not in this place.

Outside might have looked unimposing, but now he’s here inside the walls, his head is swimming with noise and silence and cold. 

“We’ve been walking around in circles,” says Bucky. “I thought you knew where the rooms are.”

It’s a nice way of saying what Peter is sure Bucky is really thinking. That he lived here for four years. He snuck around more nights than he didn’t, and he should know where he’s going. But he doesn’t know. It’s strange, frustrating and more than a little concerning. How can he be lost in a place he used to know so well? It’s like he’s losing his mind or left it back on the Quinjet with Tony.

Tony… there’s a very childish part of him that wishes he were in here with him, too.

“Things are just… a little fuzzy,” Peter admits. “I’m having trouble remembering.”

“Concentrating or remembering?”

“Both? I’m not sure." 

“Listen, Peter,” says Bucky. He pauses, uncomfortable, before continuing. “You’re not back here.”

“What? We’re standing –“

“But it’s not the same. We’re going to walk out of here. In minutes, hours, at the most and you’re not here, the way you were here before. You’re not stuck. You’re not… backwards, in time.”

He looks around the halls. They’re empty, in more ways than one, but also filled with memories. Bad ones, and some not so bad ones but even those he wouldn’t call good. Sneaking, sticking to the walls, learning how to control his powers for the first time, away from the eyes recorded his every move on clipboards and computers. Four years. He spent four years in this place, and one day, when he was five.

That’s enough. And it’s enough for the other kids, too. The ones he left behind.

He’s ready for it to be over, and so when his head clears, the noise dies down, the silence melts into quiet and cold disappears, he knows the way.

“This way,” he says, pointing to the opposite direction.

“Sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Bucky nods, and they march on.

They reach a long hall, with many doors, and when they approach the first door, Peter motions for Bucky to stand back. He can’t imagine what he’d do during his days trapped here if all of the sudden some guy with a metal arm was standing outside his door. Probably fight, or more likely, fight to run. He knocks on the door in code. It’s a rhythm of knocks that separates him from the staff, or from Michael.

Michael. He’s around here somewhere, roaming and waiting, and the thought fills Peter with dread. He doesn’t want to fight with him, not now he remembers his name, but he won’t have a choice. Michael doesn’t know how to do anything other than fight.

Seconds later, the door cracks open. All Peter can see is mousy, ratty blonde hair and a pair of eyes peering out at him.

“P-Peter?” asks a small voice.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s me. I brought a friend, too.”

The door comes all the way open, and Riley is visible on the other side, both thin and pale. Is that the way he looked? When the Avenger found him? He has never realized the way all the kids here, him too, look like they’re about ten seconds away from death. Steve and Bucky are right. Perspective is the lens he needs to understand he’s not here anymore. Not really. Even as he stands in the past, he’s not part of it.

“We all thought you were dead,” she says.

“I’m not,” says Peter. “We’re going to get you out of here.”  

She steps out of the room entirely. Peter stops the door from slamming shut with his foot. It isn’t his old bedroom, but they all look the same. Four grey walls, a bed that’s too small and now that he knows better, not really a bed at all, and there’s nothing else. Just a small space. And there’s that ache in his chest coming back, the one that calls him back into his bedroom at the penthouse. The very permanent room, where him and Harry play videogames and Tony sits with him through the nightmares.

Getting back there is all the motivation he needs to keep going forward.

Very gently, he lets the door fall shut and has no desire to look back.

Riley looks up at Bucky with wide-eyes, blinking and not saying anything, while Peter takes the backpack off and digs around for the small plastic bottles of antidote. They’re not shots like the one his dad gave him. They’re liquid to be swallowed, and all the proof Peter needs to conclude his dad wasn’t as smart as he pretended to be. 

Or at least not nearly as smart as Bruce Banner or Tony Stark. Not if he couldn’t figure out a safer, less painful and traumatizing way to protect him from the poison he invented.

He grabs one and hands to Riley. “Drink this. It’s medicine.”

She hesitates, looks unsure, but she does trust Peter. She unscrews the cap and drinks it. One down.

She becomes their helper with the rest, and one by one, they all drink up. Soon the hallway is crowded. Soon after that, they’re on the last the kid. A small boy Peter’s never seen before. Someone new. After he’s done drinking the antidote, Peter zips the bag back up and puts it back on. There’s still a few left inside. Bruce packed extras.

Bucky adjusts the communication link in his ear and begins to rely the message. He never gets the chance. Tony’s voice comes through on the other side, cutting him off, and Peter breathes out a sigh of relief when he hears he’s in the building with them. Not anywhere around. But somewhere, and the information Peter needs to understand that it’s over.

The kids are safe. Iron Man and the rest of the Avengers are coming in, and soon they’ll be flying away from this place. This time never to come back.

Bucky’s troubled expression as he talks with Tony doesn’t faze Peter. He’s already thinking about seeing Norman and Monroe being taken away, about getting back to the compound into his bed there, about finality. He looks away from him and squints his eyes to see a small form all the way at the end of the hall. It’s the smallest, youngest boy, the last one to receive the antidote, and Peter feels compelled to walk towards him.

He’s only halfway there when the alarm sounds, and when he turns, him and Bucky lock eyes as a sheet of security glass slides down from the ceiling. Separating them. Separating Peter from everyone else except this one small boy.

And the walls are closing in, the noise turns up to eleven. Things tilt and become fuzzy and his head is spinning, or maybe it’s everything else that’s spinning. Maybe he’s standing still. He’s certain he’s going to die, right here in this hallway on the wrong side of the glass, in front of Bucky and everyone else.

“Hey,” says Bucky. His voice is far away. It barely breaks the surface. “HEY!” 

Peter blinks back into reality, where walls are just walls and stay still, and looks at Bucky. He approaches the glass just as Bucky gets closer from his side. It’s that same, special sort of glass, the kind even Bucky with his metal arm is useless against, the kind Captain America can’t break, the kind from his nightmares.

“Don’t go back there. Don’t go back to that place in your head,” says Bucky, and it’s easier said than done. His nightmares are fresh now, like he’s just woken up and realized they were and are incredibly real. “Peter, listen to me. Find an exit. Get you and him –“ He points to the boy standing still clueless behind him. “-out of this building, and we’ll meet you outside.” 

Peter doesn’t want to, and it must be apparent on his face, because Bucky keeps talking.

“This is nothing. You’re going to walk out of here, and we’ll be home by morning.”

“Okay,” says Peter. There isn’t any doubt written on Bucky’s face, and he takes that as a good sign. 

Bucky gives him a nod with an order in it. Get moving. With a deep breath, Peter turns, tells the boy to follow him and doesn’t look back.

* * *

The talking doesn’t stop. It continues as Tony clanks his way through the halls of New Life Research Facility in his armor with Norman at his side. Tony never gave Harry enough credit. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible to grow up with such an annoying insect constantly buzzing around, and it’s no wonder Harry had been ready to punch the first boy his age with a mouth that wouldn’t stop.

“You’ll never be his father,” says Norman. “That’s Richard Parker’s boy. Clear as day. Looks just like him.”

Tony’s response is to keep walking. To not entertain and engage in this type of conversation. There are words designed to create doubt, to mess with him, to distract him, and he’s determined not to fall for it.

“You and your friend Captain America assumed I was talking about his powers when I called him dangerous. That’s only part of it.” 

Something groans nearby, and it sounds similar to metal gates moaning as they open, the rusty gears operating them moving again for the first time in a long time.

“You all think I’m bad,” says Norman. “But you never met Richard. He’s the nastiest person I’ve ever known and having him killed was a service to humanity.” 

“Don’t kid yourself,” says Tony. They come to a turn, and Norman directs them where to go. “Don’t make yourself out to be a hero when all you’ve done is killed someone just as bad as you, then continued on with the atrocities he made possible.”

“Ahhh,” says Norman. “But see there’s the difference. I’ve done what I’ve done for science, to make progress, progress that will help the masses someday, cure diseases maybe, but Parker wanted to make monsters. He wanted to manufacture weapons, and he loved doing it. He loved hearing them scream. Didn’t care much for crying, however. That always seemed to put him in a mood.”

There isn’t any way to know if what Norman is telling him is true, but the motivate is clear. To get under his skin. Despite this, despite knowing this and being able to see past it, Tony finds himself going through a list of Peter’s behaviors and checking the boxes off. It’s not a secret anymore Richard Parker had been a bad person. Someone the world wouldn’t and couldn’t miss, but now he’s something worse.

A psychopath.

It doesn’t matter much, though, at least not in Norman’s case, because in Tony’s opinion there isn’t much difference between Richard Parker and Norman Osborn and that mad professor.

“He was truly evil,” says Norman. “And that boy you’re pretending is your son, that’s where he comes from. He has that same DNA. That same blood in his veins. How long do you think it’ll be before he starts to go bad and the Avengers will be hunting him?” 

That idea causes Tony to bark out a laugh. Completely and utterly ridiculous, and Norman loses all credibility in that moment. Once Tony saw Peter avoid stepping on an ant while walking on the sidewalk, he talked Pepper out of killing a spider and instead set it free outside, and he couldn’t even kill Monroe, a man who held him prisoner and killed one of his friends. He doesn’t share any of this with Norman. These are all very close and private details, family details, and it feels wrong to bring them

But it does bring up a good question. How could something so good come from something that evil? His aunt and uncle, maybe. Peter always has good things to say about them. Maybe they saved him long before any Avengers ever did.

“Are you gonna show me these spiders? Or just keep gossiping like we’re at a slumber party?” 

“We both know there aren’t any spiders,” says Norman. “But not to worry. There are other… secrets.”

They come to a room with a broken door, and file inside, stepping past a guard knocked out cold on the floor.

“I wonder if that’s the work of your boy…”

Tony ignores him again and looks around the room. It’s a sad, miserable, and haunting place. The sight of child torture, but there’s no time to dwell. He hears someone click on the line, and wastes no time in cutting that person, Bucky, it turns out, off. The news of his entrance into hell is more important.

They don’t speak long.

There’s an ear shattering alarm, and when Tony searches the room, Norman is nowhere to be found. He can’t be bothered looking for him, though, because the yelling on the other end of the line the very reason he didn’t want Peter in this facility in the first place. He forgets about Norman as he sprints out of the room. A cabinet catches his eyes on the way out. One filled with vials and only three empty spaces.

 

* * *

 

“What’s your name?”

Peter is trying to distract himself. He’s trying to distract the boy too, because he’s small and terrified and that’s the way Peter feels on the inside despite being strong.

“I don’t have one anymore,” he answers.

The hall they’re walking down is a familiar one, and once Peter realizes where they are, he doesn’t want to reach the end. That’s an impossibility. They will have to keep going, walk past the place Peter fears most, if they want to find an exit.

“What was it when you had one?”

“Teddy,” he says.

They’re almost there. Almost at the end where there’s a choice to turn, or a choice to go inside the room he hates.

“It’s short for Edward,” he continues, “Cause my dad was called Edward too… I turn six soon… do you know what day it is?”

“I –“ 

“The man with the white coat says when I’m six I get to help with one of the experiments,” he tells him. “Will I still get to? Even though we’re leaving?”

“No,” says Peter. “But it isn’t very much fun anyway.”

Teddy frowns and doesn’t seem to believe him, and then they’re there. 

He peaks inside the dreaded room. Harry’s in there. He’s trapped inside the glass cage, living out Peter’s nightmare, and Michael’s there, too. Standing nearby the prison, watching Harry with interest, as he stares at something green in his hand. The black bracelet on Michael’s wrist reminds Peter of the one that isn’t on his wrist, and the antidotes sitting in his bag.

Both of them need his help, and he has a decision to make as he stands outside the door. It isn’t a hard one.

Peter enters the training room, Teddy following close behind him, and it isn’t until he door shuts behind him that he thinks it’s a mistake. All attention lands on him. Monroe, who he hadn’t realized was in the room seconds ago, looks at him, narrows his eyes, then pushes a few buttons on the computer.

The door behind him locks with a click, and a timer fills one of the computer screens.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I wasn't so committed to these Peter Pan related titles, this one would have been called let's save the pitiful children, cause the Be More Chill soundtrack is everything to me. And ahhhh three more chapters left! Well actually 2 more chapters and epilogue, but same thing. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone reading, subscribing, bookmarking, leaving kudos and commenting!! You guys in the comments are always so great, and I love reading your thoughts. 
> 
> Next chapter early next weekish!!


	22. lost boys II

  1. lost boys II



 

“Well look who’s decided to join us.”

Monroe’s voice, in all its cruel undertones, seems to echo throughout the large room, and it catches Peter’s breath. Only for a moment. A second, really, and then his head is clear. There isn’t any fuzziness, or noise to blur the edges of his reality. As his eyes focus on Monroe, and the beady eyes of the professor bores back into his, the panic he’s grown so used fades into a confidence. One bred from seeing the timer on the screen. The room’s on lockdown. It should probably scare him, but there’s security in a locked door.

Or rather, the knowledge that a locked door means nothing to Iron Man, and he’s not particularly fond of knocking.

“It’s Peter Stark. Fresh from his press tour.”

He walks into the room even further, stopping at the halfway point between the glass prison in front of him and the locked door behind him. Teddy follows him closely, and that’s the only part of this situation worrying him. How to keep a five-year-old out of the line of fire while he stalls and waits for Tony and the rest of the Avengers to bust down the door. Or ceiling. Whichever they see fit to do this time around.

Peter looks at Harry standing in the glass cage. He’s gripping a green vial in one hand and a syringe in his other. Not good. There’s another worry to the list, but it doesn’t outshine his worry for Teddy. Harry is intelligent enough not to willingly inject himself with DNA changing, potentially life-threatening poison, right? 

“Doing okay in there, Harry?”

“Could be better,” he answers. “You?”

Peter shrugs, purposefully nonchalant, while his eyes flick back and forth between Michael leaning against the glass and Monroe sitting down in the computer chair.  

“I’ve been worse.”

Michael’s self-assured, smug smile is visible from across the room. “Awfully confident for someone who’s all alone.”

“Not to worry. He won’t be once we’re finished here,” clips Monroe. “This one isn’t used to a good fight anymore… not after being domesticated.”

“I prefer the term civilized.” 

“It matters very little what term you prefer. The end is still the same.”

Peter’s fire-glare settles on Monroe. He supposes the old man knows Iron Man’s fury is coming either way now, so he sees no harm in having the two of them fight to the death. He gives the order in the form of a whistle followed by a lazy waving motion, and Michael shrugs away from his relaxed position against the glass. Purpose and intention bounce off him in waves he gets closer and closer, leaving Peter to think fast.

He takes some steps back and instructs Teddy to get away from him. To find somewhere to hide. There aren’t many options in this room filled with mostly empty space, and so Peter isn’t surprised when Teddy darts over to the desk to join Monroe. Too fresh and new and young to realize the only adult in the room is arguably the very person he should be trying to avoid the most.

Not good. Not good. Not good. But there isn’t anything Peter can do about. Michael is close, and when one of his arm ignites, Peter can feel the heat radiating off it.

“We don’t have to do this,” says Peter. He stumbles backwards as Michael continues his march forward. “We don’t have to fight each other. We should be fighting him.” 

Michael is unmoved, and possibly from his expression, bored by the argument. Their dance continues. Peter takes one step back for every step he takes towards him, until the backpack he wears hits the wall and there’s no room left to move.

“Think this through,” urges Peter, though he keeps his voice quiet. He doesn’t want Monroe to overhear him. Doesn’t want to give the man any ideas about pressing any buttons that might cause Michael to drop dead. “The Avengers are here. Right outside even, and soon they’re going to find a way into his room. Probably before that timer runs out. Do you really want to be on the wrong side of this when that happens?”

“I’ll fight my way out and disappear.”

“No, you won’t,” says Peter. “They’re too strong… and there’s too many of them. Just listen – “

Michael punches the wall very near to Peter’s face, and keeps his fist there, settling into metal impossible to melt.

“I don’t have the luxury of listening to my options,” says Michael, both loud and furious. There’s something wrong about it. Peter’s never seen that from him before. He’s always taunting. Mocking. Never angry like this. “Your dad made sure of that. The real one.”

His eyes shift to the black bracelet on his wrist.

“I can – I can change that, if you’d just listen to me. You could be free from that… like me.”

“Don’t fool yourself, _Stark_ ,” says Michael. “You’re not free. You just changed masters.”

There’s a flawed logic somewhere in that sentence, and Peter can’t figure out to explain it. Technically, it’s true, but also, it’s not true. Getting rescued by the Avengers and living with Tony has come with rules and boundaries. Things he wants to do but can’t. Things he doesn’t want to do but has to. But he has the choice. There isn’t poison strapped to his wrist or a gun to his head, and that makes all the difference.

Anything nuanced can’t be explained away to Michael though, and Peter doesn’t have the time.

His reflexes take over as he ducks and dodges a fiery punch. Peter springs into the bottom half of Michael’s legs, bringing him down and causing his head to smack the concrete floor. It didn’t hit hard enough to knock him off, but it did hit hard enough to make him hesitate, to put his hand to his head to check for blood. To give Peter enough time to take advantage of his vulnerable position. Another choice. This one is a bit harder, but he uses the time he bought to back away, not to finish the fight.

He doesn’t want to hurt Michael. His dad has done enough of that already. 

As he sprints to the other side of the room, he trades a look with Harry. He’s ignoring the instruments of death in his hands and watching with trepidation.

Once he’s to his destination, the opposite side of the room, as far away from Monroe as Peter can possibly get, he slides to his knees and removes the backpack from his shoulders. The zipper gets caught on the tracks as he rushes. He turns his head, sees Michael getting up from his fall, and gets fed up with the zipper altogether. He rips it off, tears the bag open and retrieves an antidote.

He stands back up just as Michael is gaining ground on him again.

“Are we just going to play cat and mouse all night?”  

Peter stretches out his hand and unfolds it to reveal a plastic bottle of antidote. Michael takes it from his hand.

“What is this?”

“Something that will take his power away,” says Peter, nodding over at Monroe, who’s not paying attention to them. He’s talking with Teddy, and the boy is listening intently. Not good. 

Something flickers in Michael’s face. It flickers, then dims out. He slams the bottle on the floor, and it bounces away. 

“I’m not that naïve.”

Peter’s left to dodge another fiery punch.

“It’s the truth.”

He sidesteps away in time to miss another one, but he doesn’t count on Michael being prepared for his escape. He grabs his wrist, his bad one, as he tries to move away. The shock of it, of fire closing in and trapping him, causes an immediate and automatic reaction. Peter knees him in the stomach, yanks his arm free with all his strength and gives him a powerful kick, sending him back to the floor.

“Stop fighting with me,” says Peter. He checks his wrist. It’s free and not burnt in the slightest.  When looks back up, he’s rising back up from the floor. “Michael… I’m trying to help you.”

He stops dead once he’s back to his feet. Something like recognition flickers on his face, replacing the anger, and Peter doesn’t know why he didn’t think about this before. It’s a strange idea. Telling someone what their name is, when they can’t remember it themselves.

“What did you call me?”

“Michael,” says Peter. “That’s your name.”

The fire disappears from his arms and Peter feels his body relax.

Behind Michael, Monroe stands up from the computer chair, sensing trouble, but Peter doubts he can hear them from all the way over there. 

“Don’t listen to him,” says Monroe. “Whatever he’s telling you. You can’t believe him. He’s been brainwashed.”

“Yeah, _I’m_ the one who’s been brainwashed." 

“Michael?”

Harry’s voice from the glass prison is questioning, and smaller. Smaller than Peter’s ever heard Harry sound before. That’s what being trapped does to people. Makes them feel small. To Harry’s credit, he’s put both the green vial and the syringe down on the floor as he digs in his pocket. He pulls out a sheet of paper, unfolds it, and pressed it against the glass.

“Michael Mitchell,” says Harry. “Why are you listening to this guy? He’s trying to sell you off to the highest bidder.”

“More lies,” says Monroe. Quick to dismiss the truth.

“See for yourself.”

Michael hesitates before eventually starting his slow but steady walk away from Peter and towards the glass prison. Peter inches his way forward too, but cautiously. Keeping his guard up in case there’s a surprise attack.

“You were going to sell me?” asks Michael, once he’s done reading the paper. He stands facing Monroe with an odd mix of confusion and hurt playing out his face.

Peter can’t understand it. How anyone could be surprised by Monroe’s cruelty, but then he remembers Michael’s loyalty. His willingness to follow orders. Maybe he thought doing so demanded something in return. Like loyalty, like love, like family. Those concepts have no one place here, and as he watches Michael, he has to replay Bucky’s words. 

He’s not here. He’s not back here. He’s not in the same place as Michael anymore.

Monroe gives a dramatic sigh, a tsk tsk to brush him off and brush his human trafficking scheme under the rug. “Did you think you could stay here forever? You’re getting too old. You were going somewhere better. Where your talents could be put to better use by people who aren’t afraid to use them.” 

Without the Avenger’s intervention, without Tony’s stubborn insistence to take him and take him whole with both hands, that would have been Peter’s fate. Sold off as a weapon to people who would no doubt try to make him do things he didn’t feel capable of doing. He hopes Monroe keeps talking, keeping digging his grave while the timer ticks away, while the arrival of Tony gets nearer and nearer.

“None of that matters now,” says Monroe. “So, there’s no use turning this into a melodrama. Once the Avengers come and take you, they’re going to lock you up, you know. You’ll rot in some cage.” Monroe points a finger at Peter. “All while golden boy over here roams free. It’s always been that way, hasn’t it? Peter Parker loved and admired by everyone, then there’s you. Left out in the cold. He shouldn’t get to live when you’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cage. That isn’t right.”

“They aren’t like that,” says Harry. “They wouldn’t do… that.”

“And then there’s Harry Osborn,” says Monroe, announcing his name like he’s a ringleader at a circus, introducing the next act. “Where do you think you’re going to go when your father is hauled off to prison? Some foster family. How the mighty have fallen indeed, but I guess you do have one last chance… to be something more.”

“No,” says Peter, as he helplessly watches Harry’s eyes drift back down to the green vial sitting on the concrete floor. “You don’t want that… You… you never get to be normal again.”

“See how ungrateful he is,” says Monroe. “We give him powers. We make him who he is, and he complains about being normal. It’s disgusting. Finish him off, Michael. Turn him into charcoal like he deserves.”

Peter shakes his head and slowly backs up. He looks Michael in the eyes. “No. We fight and the only person who wins is him.”

 Michael stays quiet. He sways on his feet in the middle of the triangle. Harry in the glass cage makes the point, Peter and Monroe make the sides. He’s deliberating. Processing. Peter recognizes the expression. Outside of the triangle Teddy sits at the computers watching them with a focused intent, and Peter can’t figure out if that’s normal for a five-year-old.

The next events seem to play out in slow motion.

Michael turns, just the slightest bit, but it’s still a turn and it’s not towards Peter, it towards Monroe. His arms become covered in flames.

Monroe is faster, though. He has the weapon on his wrist ready, and it only takes one tap of his finger to bring Michael down with a fury of terrible screams, clutching at his wrist. 

Peter acts on instinct. He aims his web-shooter at the single bottle of antidote out of the bag and laying on the floor, slings it towards him and catches it effortlessly. He barrels towards Michael, kneels over him as he trashes around and continues to scream. Peter holds his breath, hoping he doesn’t get accidentally burnt, as he puts one hand on Michael’s chest to hold him as still as possible and one controlling the bottle of antidote.

He dumps it in his mouth between screams. Some of it gets spilled on the floor, some of it comes back out, and by the time the bottle is empty, and Peter lets go of him, all he can do is fall backwards on the floor and hope it’s enough. Hope the antidote works even though the poison’s been activated.

His hope crashes and burns when Michael becomes still, too still and closes his eyes. His promise to Tony is up in smoke along with it. Nobody dies is probably too optimistic for a mission with the Avengers. Last time Laney went. This time Michael. Peter’s eyes drift to Teddy, and he pushes himself back up and walks over to him. Determined not to let anything happen to his last boy.

He’s all the way over to the computers where Teddy’s hand is hovering over the keyboard when hears it. A loud gasp of breath, and when he turns back around, Michael is stirring, trying to sit up, but most of all, breathing.

Relief floods through him. Close call.

He puts his attention back on Teddy.

“Hey. What’re you doing?”

He grabs the boy’s hand before it comes down on the keyboard, then looks at the monitor in horror. The timer is gone. It’s replaced by a prompter to start a self-destruct protocol. They were almost all blown up by a five-year-old. Great.

“Professor Monroe says I have to push this button when things get bad,” says Teddy, simply. “And I thought that boy was dead, so – “

“No. Don’t push any buttons,” says Peter, then frowns at his own tone. It’s sharp and annoyed and sounds like Tony. Everyone’s right. They spend way too much time together.

“But Professor Monroe said to and he’s a grown- “

A scream interrupts him, and Peter spins the chair around so Teddy stares at the wall instead of what’s happening on the other side of the room. Peter doesn’t need to look. He can hear the sizzle of Monroe’s burning skin. He hears the agony in his screams, more desperate than when Tony and Nat were taking turns with him. Disabling the self-destruction prompter on the computer is higher priority than helping Monroe, so he grits his teeth and outmaneuvers the computer systems of New Life one last time as he ignores the old man’s screams.

Once he’s done with that, there’s isn’t any to do done to help Monroe. Peter’s seen it, heard it, too many times before. The way it sounds when One burns his victims alive. Instead he does what Steve would want him to do, he looks the other way with Teddy. Stares at the wall. He’s already disappointed Captain America too many times.

And now Tony too, because as the screams get quieter, the raspy dying breaths get louder, until eventually they are no more, and Peter has broken his promise after all. 

Nobody dies means nobody dies. Even if they’re a monster who doesn’t deserve to live.

He hangs onto the back of Teddy’s chair a bit tighter and suddenly understands why Tony’s grip is sometimes too tight.

* * *

Professor Monroe dying is the worse sound Harry’s ever heard in real life. Fake moans and groans on video games don’t compare. He caught a glimpse of it. Michael standing over Monroe after he pushed him down to the floor. His hand inching towards his face. He didn’t watch the rest. Life isn’t a video game, and seeing gore play out in front of him in real life isn’t how he want his night to go.

He’s relieved when the old man stops screaming. He can’t hear it anymore. Listening to someone die is haunting, and the screams echo around in his head even after they stop, even after Monroe takes his last, raspy breath.

“What did you do?”

 Harry can’t see Peter from inside the glass, but it’s distinctly his voice.

Michael stands, steps away from the corpse Harry is trying and fail not to look at and gives a careless shrug. “What? Don’t pretend like this wasn’t what you wanted. You’re the one who said we should be fighting him.” 

“I didn’t mean kill him.”

“Opps,” says Michael. “Too late.”

Peter walks back into frame with his head up and his eyes away from the floor. He stops when he’s a few feet away from Michael. A bad feeling creeps through Harry’s gut, and it’s accompanied by a lack of understanding. Peter shouldn’t be putting himself closer to that maniac. That monster who killed an older monster with his bare hands.

“Umm it’s okay. It’s fine,” says Peter. His words come fast. He runs a hand through his hair. “You just lost control, and Monroe’s a bad guy… so they won’t lock you up for that.”

It’s obvious to Harry that Peter is only attempting to convince himself. Michael doesn’t care. Doesn’t seem nervous or concerned in the slightest. And Harry knows better. Hell. He knows that Peter knows better. Michael is unstable. Letting him out and about with regular, everyday citizens is something Tony Stark would never dol.

“Well maybe not for _that_.” Michael aims a disgusted look down towards the dead body on the floor. “Can you believe it? All those years he had all the power, but he still burned the same as everyone else.”

Michael turns his gaze back upwards. He looks directly at Peter, and a single arm ignites with deadly fire.

“W-what are you doing?”

“We have a fight to finish.”

 Peter steps backwards. At least he has enough sense to put some distance between himself and the pyro.

“I won’t fight you.” 

“God, you’re so boring now,” says Michael. His eyes land on something past Peter’s shoulder. Something Harry can’t see. “But I guess if you won’t fight, I’ll just find someone else to play with while you go run and hide.”

Peter steps back into Michael’s line of sight. Blocking him from whatever his eyes are set on. “Leave him alone. He’s just a little kid.”

“So were we. Why should it be any different for him?”

Michael tries to step past Peter, but he matches his steps. There’s something strange reflecting in Peter’s eyes. Fire from Michael’s arm, or maybe just something about his glare. It’s Peter who makes the first move. Throws a punch Michael catches with a fistful of fire causing Peter to withdraw with a gasp. Michael throws another, one that looks deadly, and before Harry cries out to tell Peter to dodge, he takes a fast step backwards. He stretches his arm out, pushes a button on some device on his wrist and gets flung away, aiming a powerful kick to Michael’s stomach as he goes.

Michael grunts in pain, shakes it off and stalks over in what Harry can only assume is where Peter went.

He’s completely useless inside this prison. Even useless to watch with his limited perspective.

His eyes find the green vial on the floor and he picks it up. Maybe it’s a key. Maybe whatever powers he’d get from it would be good enough to break this glass and help Peter stop Michael. He picks up the syringe and unscrews the cap on the vial. He sticks the needle inside, sucks up every drop of green liquid and brings the needle close to his skin. 

A low rumble causes him to pause. The sheet of glass keeping me a prisoner slides up into the ceiling, but it doesn’t stay there. It comes back down. It goes back up. Over and over again. He watches it a few more times, Peter and Michael jumping and dodging each other in the background, before he times his exit and makes a successful escape. He looks to his left, and it’s clear why the cage is glitching out. The computers lay smashed and smoking in pieces along with the desk. 

Harry’s eyes find the small boy from earlier. The boy who followed Peter inside the room, and he races towards him, gripping the syringe and keeping out of the way. He sits next to him, puts his back against the wall, and looks up just in time to see Peter land another kick before propelling himself to the ceiling. And sticking to it.

“Come down, little spider,” calls Michael. His voice echoes. It mocks.

But it doesn’t seem to bother Peter. He kicks off the ceiling, plummets down and gets a few good hits before putting more distance between them. That seems to be his strategy. He never sticks around long enough to be burned. 

“Is that for me?” asks the boy next to Harry.

“This?” Harry holds up the syringe, then continues when he nods. “No. Why would it be?”

“It looks the same as mine,” he says. He digs around in his pocket and produces a vial. “See? Same color. Professor Monroe says I have to drink this, all of it, when the Avengers get here.”

“No, don’t drink anything,” says Harry. He confiscates the vial from the boy, puts it into his own pocket and ignores his pouting. 

Harry pauses and considers the syringe. Anything the mad Professor said to do doesn’t likely end anywhere good. And yet… he seems drawn to this power inside the tube. Monroe had been right about something. After tonight, he’s either dead or alone. He’s always disliked his father, but even now that he knows everything, now that he hates him, he still doesn’t want to be alone.

Harry’s eyes shift up to watch more of the battle unfolding between Peter and Michael. They’re both getting tired. They’re slower, and their movements are less refined. It’s an even match. Neither willing to give up, neither strong enough to overpower the other. Or at least that’s how it seems. Sometimes as he watches he almost gets the impression Peter is holding back.

Peter crashes down from the ceiling, but this time he doesn’t stick the landing. He hits the floor hard and is slow to sit up. He uses his hands as props to hold his body weight, glaring at Michael as he approaches with a satisfied smile spread across his face. No doubt thinking he’s won. Peter doesn’t get up, doesn’t try to get away, as Michael gets closer and closer, until he’s within striking distance.

Harry knows exactly what to do to help Peter. He launches away from the wall, positions himself towards the center of the room and sticks himself with the needle. He ignores the pinching as it digs further into his skin, but he’s about to do it. He’s going to take a deep breath, push down on the plunger, when the sound of screeching metal assaults his ears. Iron Man steps through a hole he’s torn into the wall, and behind him, another Avenger is taking long strides towards Michael and Peter.

Michael lets out a growl when he sees trouble marching straight for him. He raises his fiery fist all the same, but it’s caught in mid-air by a metal hand. Michael tries to hit the long-haired Avenger with his free hand. It doesn’t work. That hand also gets caught by the same one trapping his first, and with both hands secured, he’s easily dragged away from Peter, to the other side of the room.

Iron Man goes directly to Peter. He kneels besides him, and helps him to his feet, while Peter reassures him that he’s okay over and over again. At least not everything is a lie. The Starks are still a family in a way the Osborns never have been.

“Harry.” 

He spins around at the familiar but foreign voice, then frowns.

“Ms. Mullens? What are you doing here?”

And it sinks in. Ms. Mullens is a lie. Not a guidance counselor. She’s an Avenger. Planted in the school to spy on him, or maybe look out for Peter. Both? Harry isn’t sure, so he takes a few steps back, carefully holding the needle sticking in his arm still as he does. Standing next to her is another familiar face. The man from the arcade. He’s holding a bow. A weapon.

And it’s pointed at _him._

“You said you weren’t an Avenger,” says Harry. So many lies to untangle, so much spinning and spinning in his head.

“Drop it,” he says. He does at half-nod at the needle sticking out from his arm. “Put it down and we can all go home.”

Except there is no home for Harry. Not anymore. Maybe never was.  

He’s alone, and from this point on, he has to do everything on his own.

“Why… why are you pointing that at me?” 

“In case you make a bad decision.”  

“You’ll miss,” says Harry. The thought of having an arrow shot at him does make him want to put the needle down, and step far, far away, but he can’t. He’s so close, so instead he holds his arm out, away from his body, in case the man really isn’t bluffing.

“I don’t miss.” 

“Just put that down,” says the non-guidance counselor. “And we won’t have to test it.”

Michael’s screaming tears Harry’s attention away from the Avengers in front of him. He’s failing on the floor, struggling and fighting with Tony and the metal-arm man as they hover above him, trying to straight him arms out and cover them with something. Peter is nearby, and he’s yelling things too. At Michael. Telling him to stop. Peter is wasting his breath.

A turn of his head in the other direction brings Captain America into his view. He’s lifting the smallest boy up into his arms and getting him safely out of the room.

“You’re not a sheep, remember?” says Clint. “Don’t make choices like one.”

It’s all too much, and it’s all hitting him at the same time. Michael screaming. Peter shouting. A sheet of glass going up and down, up and down, up and down, thudding with a slow and irritating rhythm. The smell of burning wires and plastic, ashes everywhere, and that stuff Peter uses to swing around sticks to the walls, hangs off the ceiling. Chaos forces Harry’s thoughts elsewhere.

Back in his father’s office, standing unseen in the doorway. Tiptoeing through socialites at parties he hates to smuggle alcohol away. Also invisible.

Getting threatened by a stranger in Queens because of all the bad things his father does.

Slammed into a locker and laughed at by Flash.

Pushed into the back of an unmarked car.

Too much. It’s all too much.

“I have to do this,” says Harry, and his voice is shaky, but he’s never been more sure about anything. His eyes are on the floor, his thumb is on the syringe’s plunger. When he pushes it down, there’s nothing except air underneath.

The syringe is shattered by an arrow Harry didn’t see go through. Green liquid flies everywhere and Harry drops to the floor. Spots on his arm and face burn. He claws at them. Scratches at them. Anything to make it stop. He has to make the burning stop. 

His eyes are shut in his struggle with himself, but he’s faintly aware there’s people kneeling by him. Rough hands are trying to stop him from clawing at himself, but it isn’t the force that makes him stop. There’s a voice that cuts through the chaos happening in the room.

“What have you done? What have all you done to my son?”

Dad. 

He blinks his eyes open and sits up. Norman Osborn stands in front of him, but it isn’t his dad. It’s something different. Something off. A green tint in his eyes and in his hair. There’s a wild, unpredictable air about him, and it makes Harry nervous. When he starts towards him, Harry scouts back on his hands

“Stay away from me,” he tells Norman.

Harry doesn’t know what scares him most, the crushed and hurt look on his dad’s face, or realizing the man actually does care about him the same day he realizes the man is actually a monster. Literally now. And him too. His skin is still burning, and he isn’t completely sure Clint’s arrow saved him from the mysterious green liquid.

Norman shakes off the rejection, and narrows his eyes, scanning the room.

“Oh,” says Norman. Flat. When Harry follows his gaze, his eyes land on Monroe’s dead body. “Shame. Someone beat me to it.”

“…you came here just to kill him?” asks Harry. Not to rescue him. To avenge him.

“No one threatens an Osborn and lives to talk about it. Least of all employees,” snaps Norman. “Looks like he a paid a good enough price. Burnt to death. Kudos to the lucky bastard who did the deed.”

Harry blinks his eyes at him again. His dad is standing in the middle of a room full of Avengers and talking loudly about murder. Another thing to his list of too much.

Norman takes more steps towards Harry, but at some point Captain America must have come back, because he’s there to step between them. There’s no way of knowing if Norman thought whatever he injected himself with would make him stronger than Captain America, but it didn’t. He easily turns Norman around and steers him out of the room without any more words exchanged.

Harry watches them disappear and lets out a breath. The kind people let go of when they’re sure their entire world just changed in the span of one evening.

* * *

The glass hits the concrete one last time and doesn’t come back up again. No one is trapped inside. No one who’s living, anyway. Peter imagines there’s lots of ghosts and memories and maybe some dust still stirring inside. Unseen, but there.

The rest of the training room is being cleared out. After Steve takes Norman away, after Nat and Clint leave with Harry, Peter watches Bucky take Michael away. His head is hung, but he’s not fighting anymore. Peter asks to go back to the jet with them. Tony hits him with a firm no, and uses a tone Peter can’t argue with, so he sticks around and watches and waits with Tony.

Someone covers up Monroe’s body with something plastic and black and drags him away from the center of the room.

“Tony,” says Peter. He turns to look at him. “I’m sorry I broke my promise.”

Apologies are still against the rules, but he’s already broken that rule a few times tonight. Once in the playground. In his bedroom when Tony tripped on his misplaced shoe. In the jet when he bumped into him. It’s hard for him to imagine all these events happened in this same night. Or they didn’t. Maybe it’s morning by now.

Tony hesitates as he stares back. Then shakes his head and waves an aggressive finger at him.

“No, nope. You don’t feel guilty for that man. You didn’t even kill him, and when you had the chance to- “

“I could’ve stopped him,” says Peter, and it isn’t until now he realizes he’s not guilty for Monroe.

He didn’t want the man to die. A better fate for him would be to rot in prison. But there’s a bigger tragedy here. He’s guilty for Michael, because he allowed him to do something horrible and irreversible. It’s true he’s killed before. Lots of times, but this time is different. This time it’s Peter’s fault. And the other times. Well those were Richard’s.

“My dad – he – “

“He’s responsible for creating him,” Tony finishes for him. “Which is why you were about two seconds away from letting him burn you alive.” 

Peter gets quiet and doesn’t answer Tony. It’s not totally the truth. He heard Tony and the others on the other side of the wall. He knew they would get to him in time and stop Michael from delivering anymore punches. Also, it’s not totally untrue. It’s a strange mixture.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” says Tony. “You’re going to make me a new promise. No. Don’t make that face. This whole false responsibility bullshit gets left behind. It doesn’t leave this room, got it?”

Peter stares at Tony. It’s a promise he can’t keep. Doesn’t even know how he would go about doing something as abstract as leaving responsibility locked in a room if he tried. So, he doesn’t answer and hopes Tony will be distracted by the two last SHIELD agents trying to beckon them out of the room. He isn’t. He waves them off, and they end up leaving without them, leaving him and Tony alone together in the big, empty room.

Tony gets right back to his speech. His dad-talk, and Peter wonders how many of these he’ll have to suffer through now they’re going to be a proper family instead of a pretend one. The thought of future dad-talks. It isn’t all that bad.

“I mean it. It’s not your fault. What he did. What happened here tonight. Laney. None of this happened because of you, and you shouldn’t waste your concern or pity on men like Monroe.”

Monroe. Evil just like his father. Evil just like Norman. It’s hard for Peter to imagine varying shades of cruelty, to imagine one of them being worse than the other, but somehow, he knows it’s true. He wonders if Norman Osborn would ever be able to do the things done here if he could see their names and faces.

Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter?

His eyes find the glass cage again. It’s still empty, but full, at the same time.

“Let’s get rid of that thing,” says Tony. 

“How?”

“Together.”

He lifts his arm and stretches out his hand, showing Peter where the repulsor beam fires, and then grips Peter’s arm, where his web-shooter and the gauntlet watch are attached. Tony unfastens the watch, takes it, and waits. Waits for an objection from Peter for what he’s about to do, and when none comes, he clasps on Peter’s bad wrist.

Peter sucks in a quick breath, but before the noise and the panic blasts through his thoughts, Tony pushes a button and his entire arm is being covered with red and gold armor. With it the armor comes a realization, that none of Tony’s inventions have ever hurt him and this one won’t either. 

And it’s kind of awesome. 

He wiggles his fingers in front of his face. Then his whole arm. Watching the armor with fascination. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” says Tony.

“How do I – “

“It’s intuitive,” he tells him. “You’ll know how.”

They both walk into the center of the room and turn towards the glass prison. The monster in his nightmares. He’s never actually been trapped inside of it, only in his nightmares, but he feels like he’s been stuck in there his whole. Since his earliest memory of this place and what happened the day he saw it for the first time.

Tony raises his arm and Peter does the same. Tony’s right. It’s incredibly intuitive. Two beams of light race across the room, one from Tony and one from Peter. They hit the glass at the same time, and it shatters into a million pieces. They rain down to the concrete floor, broken forever, and as they do, something inside Peter breaks, too.

Something that needed breaking.

His next movement is automatic. He closes the small distance between him and Tony, buries his head in his armor-covered chest, and wraps his arms around him, one covered in more armor and the other fastened with a web-shooter. Peter can feel Tony hesitate. He’s never been on the receiving end of one of their awkward hugs, but eventually, his hands are on his shoulders.

“Wanna let go of me so we can get out of here?”

“No.” 

Seconds, maybe minutes pass before Tony shifts around, wiggles himself free only to bend down, grab Peter’s legs from behind the knees and lift him up. Peter has to adjust his hold, has to move his face away from his chest and into his shoulder instead, but the transition happens fast and they’re on their way away from this place. He takes one last look over Tony’s shoulder, but it isn’t a long one.

There really isn’t anything left to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoaaa, ahhh I really can't believe there's only two chapters left of this! I am planning a 2 or 3 chapter short set in this AU after this is done, if anyone's interested, of Peter actually becoming spider-man and getting the suit. That was supposed to be in this story, but I realized it works better (at least I think it does) as it's own thing. 
> 
> And as always, thanks to everyone who's reading this! You're fantastic! Thanks for the subs, the bookmarks, the kudos and all your comments!! And if you're reading this when it's posted, pllleassse have an awesome halloween, and I guess if you're reading this later, I hope you had a good one!


	23. innocent and heartless

23\. innocent and heartless 

Peter opens his eyes when he feels his feet hit the ground. They’re still inside the facility, but just barely. They’re in the front entrance, standing in a lobby Peter’s only seen a handful of times, except at the moment it hardly looks the same. Chairs are askew instead of lined up straight. The computer at the front desk is broken on the floor, and there’s papers laying about everywhere. Peter guesses this is the work of the Avengers or SHIELD agents, combing through the building and looking for evidence to build a case.

Not that it will be difficult to do so. They have over a dozen child victims as witnesses.

Tony remotely deactivates the gauntlet armor covering Peter’s arm via a voice command to FRIDAY, and he watches as it slides and folds it on itself, until it’s just a watch clasped around his wrist. He leaves it there. Wearing something on this wrist no longer causes that horrible noise in his head and chest, and it makes him wish he would’ve brought that extra web-shooter Tony ordered him to make. Instead it’s sitting uselessly in his drawer back at the penthouse.

Tony places one of his hands on the door leading to outside, and it occurs to Peter this is the last time he’ll ever be in this building. It’s over. New Life has reached its end. His other hand rest on the back of Peter’s neck, and he’s content with the support and reassurance. He’s unbalanced and wobbly. Both his emotional and physical energy has been depleted, and that stubbornness that usually keeps him going, keeps him awake and fighting at times like these, broke with the glass in the training room, along with many other things.

“Ready?”

And all Peter can do is nod.

They step outside into the dark night and the brisk air. Chaos is happening all around them. SHIELD agents are swarming, coming in and out of different entrances to the building, going on and off of jets. There’s three now. The Quinjet, which has been brought closer now, and two others Peter doesn’t recognize. Teddy is being lifted onto one of them though, and so Peter assumes that’s where they’re keeping the rest of the kids.

Safe. They’re all safe, and it’s over. He takes a deep, purposeful breath, notices that the stars look exceptionally bright, and wonders if there’s anyone up there looking down at him now. If his aunt and uncle are proud of this moment, if his mom is still disapproving, and if his dad is somewhere underneath the dirt, angry his legacy is being picked through and torn apart.

He pulls his thoughts back to the present and looks around the grounds again. He doesn’t see Michael or Harry or even Norman Osborn anywhere, but he does lock eyes with a familiar guard, one he used to trade insults with, as he’s handcuffed and shoved on the ground in a line of other New Life employees. Some he recognizes as kitchen staff he used to steal from. Some are the scientists he barely ever saw, and some he doesn’t recognize at all. Peter wonders how these people will be prosecuted and how long they’ll spend behind bars.  

“Mr. Stark.” One of the SHEILD agents stop them as they’re walking past the group of captured New Life employees. He beckons at Peter. “What do you want me to do with that one?”

“This is my son,” says Tony, impatient and as if it were obvious, and it probably should be by now. Peter Stark’s face is plastered everywhere on the internet. “He stays with me.” 

“Oh,” he says, then narrows his eyes and tries to get a better look. For a second Peter thinks he might ask a question, something like why Tony would bring his son along for something like this but seems to think better of trying Iron Man’s paper-thin patience. “Uh, of course, sir.”

The agent pauses, opens his mouth to say something else, before he walks away. Peter’s eyes follow him as he goes to the same jet they loaded Teddy onto and watches him disappear inside it. In another world, if things had gone just a little bit differently, Peter might be on that other jet, with the rest of the orphans who have trauma and no home. Just happy to be rescued and taken away from this terrible place. He’s happy he lives in this one, where he’s outside walking around, untouchable because of his connection to Tony and his unrelenting grip. 

Nat and Clint are the next people to break through the chaos and approach them. 

“Are you doing alright over there, spider-kid?” asks Clint.

“Yeah.”

“He’s fine. He’s just tired. No injuries,” says Tony, clarifying and it leads Peter to believe he must truly look as tired as he feels if everyone else can see it just by looking at him. “Where’s Norman?” 

“With Steve,” says Nat. “In the jet.” 

“And is he… back to normal, yet?”

“Not yet,” says Nat, and her and Clint look at each other uneasy. As if to say they don’t believe he’s ever going to go back to normal.

A lot of things happened at the same time in the training room, and Peter only put together the pieces after the fact, while he waited around with Tony. Norman apparently injected himself with something, something that made him different, and Harry had been just a split second away from injecting himself with something too. But he was saved by Clint’s accuracy with a bow, though not completely. He still got splashed, and no one seems sure if that has any consequences or not.

“Is Harry at least okay?” asks Peter.

Nat and Clint trade more looks with each other, then with Tony. 

“The spots on his skin where the chemicals got on him aren’t burning him anymore,” says Nat, making her voice sound unnaturally hopeful. “But we won’t know for sure until Bruce looks him over. Harry’s in the jet too. Why don’t you go ask him yourself?”

Peter nods, and starts to move forward towards the Quinjet, but Tony doesn’t release the hold he has on his neck. He doesn’t make much progress before he’s pulled backwards.

“He’s staying out here,” he says.

“Bucky’s there to supervise,” says Nat, attempting to encourage him. 

“Because that worked out so well last time. He’s not leaving my sight until we’re outta here and back at the compound.”

Nat gives Peter a pitying look before disappearing into the mess of agents with Clint, leaving Peter to sigh wistfully as a familiar feeling of doom sets back in. He’s not going to argue his case this time, though. He doesn’t have the energy for it, and without the energy, the desire isn’t there. Besides, he doubts it would yield any results. 

Eventually Tony at least lets go of him, allowing him to rest in the grass while he stands around talking with SHIELD agents and a guy with an eye-patch called Fury. Peter picks at the grass absent-mindedly, and the discussions about very important matters drag on so long Tony even ditches his Iron Man armor. He’s silently cursing himself, because he should be paying attention to all this, soaking in all the information he can, but his brain is too tired to hold onto to anything longer than a second.

Peter is considering laying down and taking a nap on the cold, hard ground by the time the discussion finally comes to an end. 

“Come on, Pete,” says Tony, peeling him off the grass by grabbing both hands. “Let’s get out of here.”

Tony pushes him forward by his shoulders, and he manages to pick his feet up enough to climb on the Quinjet. He steals a glance at Norman Osborn as they pass him and Steve. His face is stiff. His eyes are wild, unfocused, with a green tint. Peter quickly looks away. They move pass them into the tail end of the jet, where Harry sits alone, and Bucky sits with Michael. He doesn’t look at Peter. He doesn’t look at anything except his own worn-out, black tennis shoes, but they at least get a half nod from Bucky.

Peter and Tony sit down next to each other across from Harry and settle in.

When the jet roars to life, jolts up into the sky and Peter bumps into Tony again, he doesn’t apologize, or even straighten back out. He’s too tired. He puts his head on Tony’s shoulder like it’s a pillow and lets his heavy eyelids win. Sleep takes him as Tony stretches his arm around his shoulders. 

* * *

Harry is alone in a room with white walls, and he’s lying on a bed too soft to be a hospital bed, although it’s angled like one with the top half titled up so he’s able to look around. The lights are dimmed, and a curtain covers the room’s full windows. There’s probably out much to see outside anyway. Presumably it’s still dark, but not for much longer. Morning is probably only seconds away by now. 

It’s a fresh start to a new and strange life as the son of a man who readily funded child experimentation and the creation of a new human species.

It might also be the start of his new life as one of those mutant humans, but he won’t know for sure until Dr. Banner comes back with the rest results.

The dimmed lights are his doing.

“In case you want to get some rest,” the doctor told him, before walking through the door.

As if he’s ever sleeping again, and even if he were entertaining that possibility, he doubts he would be able to achieve sleep without knowing whether or not the chemicals splashing on him changed him forever, or if Clint’s arrow saved him completely.

He lifts his head when he hears footsteps but relaxes when he sees it isn’t Dr. Banner coming with news. It’s just Tony making good on his promise to sit and wait with him after getting Peter in his bed. He hesitates a few seconds by the door, hand hovering over the brightness controls of the room while he stares at Harry staring at him. 

“Any news?” he asks, finally opting to break the silence and brighten the lightening. Just a smidge. 

“Still waiting,” says Harry.

He looks away from Tony. Completely unsure how to approach the man who’s responsible for his father’s demise. He’s also the most familiar adult Harry has around him here, and sadly, the closest thing he has to a family. Him and Peter. And suddenly Harry wants to go back in time and relive all the afternoons he spent with the Starks doing homework, playing video games with Peter, eating dinner with all three of them. A glimmer of hope dangles in his mind when he remembers Tony where he’s going to live after this outright. 

Instead he picks a safer question.

“How’s my dad?”

“He’s…still different,” says Tony. It’s a vague answer, and Harry can’t tell if it’s that way on purpose or if Tony truly doesn’t know.

 A million more questions hit his brain at exactly the same time. It’s a panic more than a curiosity. One he’s allowing himself to be thrown into now that he’s not alone in the room, but Tony is sitting with him. And he hates feeling that way too. Comfortable around Tony. The man isn’t his dad, isn’t responsible for him, and it’s going to be a huge letdown when he drops him off at a social services office with nothing except his dirty last name.

And it’s this fear he causes him to wish he has developed some sort of superhuman quality. At least than they’d be stuck with him.

He sticks with another safe question. 

“Can I see him?” 

Tony remains expressionless as he walks further into the room and offers him a weary sigh as he collapses into the armchair near Harry’s bed.

“Maybe,” says Tony, but his tone is too grim to take seriously. “Perhaps in a few days, when we know more about what exactly he’s done to himself.”

It’s odd Tony Stark should be the gatekeeper between him and his father. Norman probably hates that, and there’s satisfaction to be felt with that knowledge. That his father’s been ignoring him his whole life and now isn’t allowed to see him, but there’s also resentment. At Tony. Norman is still his father, and no matter how much Harry doesn’t want to miss him, he’s terrified of life without him. He desperately wants something familiar to hang onto and acknowledging this bring his most anxious question to the surface.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

Tony pauses again, and Harry’s never seen him look more uncomfortable. He plays with a loose string on the armrest of the chair and plucks it out.

“Am I… am I going into the system?”

“I’m sorry, what?” asks Tony, sharp eyes meeting his. “What did you just say? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Umm no – “ 

“Okay,” says Tony. He sits up straighter in the chair and both his hands flex against the ends of the armrest. “I’m going to break this down for you, what’s going to happen these next couple of days, then after that, so you don’t do something stupid in all your antsy teenage anticipation.” 

Harry frowns. Doing something stupid based on a lack of information really sounds more like something Peter would do, but he doesn’t correct Tony. This is going to get him answers.

“Okay…”

“Tomorrow –“ Tony checks his watch. “-Well in a few hours, there’s going to be a press release, and everyone’s going to know about New Life Research Facility. They’re going to know what went on there, and who funded it, and I’m guessing, for the next couple of weeks anyway, it’s all the internet will be talking about.”

Or in other words, Norman Osborn’s scandal is going to be the next big thing to throw outrage at on social media. The next scandal to monopolize the headlines, and for good reason.

“And they’re also going to be talking about you,” says Tony, leaning back in the chair and looks him in the eye. “Speculating more like, because Harry Osborn is going to disappear.”

“Disappear to where?”

“Well I have a suite here you’ll be staying in for the next couple of weeks. After that… how do you like farms?”

Harry finds himself frowning again. A crease forms in his face. He’s never put on foot on a farm in his entire life, but he’s seen them on TV. He’s not exactly suited for farm life with all its dirt, animals, and probably, rats. 

“Clint has – “

“That guy who shot at me?”

“You mean the guy who shot that poison out of your hand,” Tony corrects, with a raised eyebrow and a tone usually directed at Peter. “Him and his wife have agreed to let you stay there. It’s a break for him, really. He gets to work and spend time with his family.”

Harry doesn’t know if he likes the idea of being thought of as work, but he supposes this is sort of like a protective custody arrangement. Going into hiding with a bodyguard. It feels safe, but disappointing. It’s the spoiled rich kid in him that he wants to stomp out, but he was kind of wishing for a different body guard, a different family to crash.

That glimmer of hope flutters away and falls to the floor. 

“How long?” 

“A year at least. Maybe two.”

“I just thought, maybe, I could stay with you, Ms. Potts and Peter.”

“I know,” says Tony. It’s his turn to look away. “If it were safe for you in the city, if the media and the crazies weren’t an issue, I wouldn’t have you staying anywhere else… I like having you around. You keep Peter entertained and out of my hair.” 

Harry forces a chuckle. He’s unable to commit to a real laugh so soon, but at least appreciative of Tony’s attempt to light the mood, to chase away the awkwardness brought on when subjects like wishes and feelings are dangerously close.

Dr. Banner knocks on the wall outside the empty door before shuffling into the room.

“Everything’s normal,” he says. “Congratulations. You’re not going to turn into a green rage monster.” 

Harry is offended only for the amount of time it takes him to realize Dr. Banner is referring to himself. Or his other self. The hulk.

And suddenly, maybe a little bit unexpectedly, he’s relieved to find out he’s still normal after all. A whole future ahead of him and foster care isn’t part of it. There is one thing attractive about a farm. It’s in the middle of nowhere. It’s the middle of quiet, with lots of space and fields and places to just think. Nothing like the city with everything and everyone all cramped together so tightly there’s hardly any room to breathe. In the country, he bets can see all the dead stars hanging around in the sky and imagine his mother is one of them, up there shining down on him.

“That’s great news,” says Tony. He stands, and claps Harry on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you to my suite and you can get some rest.”

Harry stares at Tony’s hand because it hasn’t moved from his shoulder. 

“In two years – “

“-You’ll always have a home in the city,” says Tony, reading his mind. “If that’s what you decide when the time comes.” 

Harry nods, and pulls himself off the bed to follow Tony through the maze of hallways leading them away from the medical wing. He puts his hands in his pockets as they walk, and one of his hands touches another vial of green liquid. The one he took away from Teddy in the training room. He fights with himself.

Hand it over to Tony. Keep it for himself.

But when the elevator doors open into the Stark suite, Harry still hasn’t made his decision. By then, it’s too late. Tony only sticks around long enough to make sure he has a blanket and to direct him to the couch. He stares at the ceiling as the debate replays inside his head over and over again.

* * *

Norman Osborn sits at an interrogation table, stares straight ahead at the wall in front of him and remains completely still, despite the absence of restraints on his wrists. They wouldn’t work even if they had opted to put them on. Whatever chemicals Norman exposed himself to after sneaking away from Tony in that facility gave him above average strength. Unfortunately for him, not strength strong enough to outmatch Steve or Bucky, or probably even Peter.

Tony isn’t terribly upset about Norman’s newly found powers. It just means Norman gets to go to the raft instead of a normal prison, left isolated and alone, and since Tony never got his chance to give him matching black-eyes, he takes this as a consolation prize.

He’s more bothered by the waded-up sheet of paper Harry slid over to him on the jet, shortly after Peter passed out using him as a human pillow. An invoice where the object being sold is a child. Tony makes a mental note to hand the paper over to Fury, so they can add human trafficking to the list of Norman’s crimes. Or at least the intent to participate in human trafficking. From the looks of it, Michael would have been the first to be sold off as some kind of human weapon.

And it makes Tony wonder if all this was really about science, about progress like Norman claims, or about something more sinister.

“How did you know?” asks Steve. He’s standing somewhere behind him, also observing Norman.

“You’ll have to be a little more specific,” says Tony. “I know a lot of things.” 

“You knew Norman’s objective tonight was to have a shot at killing Monroe,” says Steve. “Anything more and you would have never let him into talking you into it.”

Tony turns to look at Steve. “That’s because our motives were the same. Just involved different people. I wanted to knock him around a little bit for what he did to Peter, and he wanted to kill Monroe for kidnapping Harry. Besides, he’s a smart man. He knows when he’s outmatched, and he knew there was no way he would get out of that situation with his freedom. 

“Injecting yourself with mystery chemicals isn’t really all that smart,” says Steve. His eyes are looking past Tony and at the man in the interrogation room.

“To be fair,” says Tony. “He probably had an idea of what they might do.”

Tony and Steve take a few steps to the left and stand in front of a different mirror, one that gives them view into a different interrogation room. Michael sits in the corner on the floor, ignoring the table and the chairs in the room. He hasn’t spoken a word since losing the struggle against him and Bucky, since they neutralized his fire and loaded him on a jet.

He isn’t in any trouble. It isn’t his fault he became a killer, and it’s not his fault he killed Monroe. Hell, that man is the reason Michael knows who to kill in the first place. He’s not left in an interrogation cell for killing. He’s in there because he’s unstable, because his inability to see they’re trying to help him, because despite the sleeves they managed to get on his arms, he’s still dangerous. To himself. To everyone around him.

“What are we going to do with him? He can’t be released to families like the others. He’s too dangerous,” says Steve. Thinking out loud, while Tony thinks quietly. “But he can’t stay here, either.” 

Both are true. Letting him out in society would be a disaster but keeping him at the compound is impossible. Though it’s secure, it’s not a prison or a rehab center. There isn’t anyone to devote their time and attention to making sure he stays put, making sure he gets what he needs while he stays contained.

He doesn’t want to send him to the raft, and he knows Steve doesn’t want that either, but it’s the third option that’s left unsaid, hanging around in the undertones of every sentence that rules out the first two options.

Michael shifts in his corner, and changes from being spaced out to staring at his arm. He waves them around, as if he’s desperately trying to call on the fire, to make something hot enough to melt the sleeves off of him. It’s impossible, as much as a waste of time as Peter trying to hack FRIDAY his first days staying at the compound, but both him and Steve watch on as his attempts become more desperate, more frustrated, until he eventually he lets out a cry and throws his head against the wall. Hard.

Neither Steve nor Tony can watch anymore, so they both slip away from the cell, eyes to the ground, both brains trying to fix something they worry might be unfixable 

* * *

Sunlight spilling in over the empty spaces left behind from an ill-fitted curtain drags Peter away from a restful and quiet sleep. He groans, turns over in his bed, slams his face between two pillows and tugs his covers closer to his body, willing precious sleep to come back for him. It almost does. He’s right on the cusp of that dark, quiet place when his stomach growls and his eyes snap back open with the sound.

The growl leaves behind a gaping, ravenous pit in his stomach, and Peter is sure, he’s never felt this hungry. Not even his first few days at the compound after rescue and Bruce determined he was clinically malnourished. There’s a difference, he realizes, between being starved for food and actually feeling hungry for it.

His stomach growls again, and his response is to turn back over on his back and blink at the ceiling, staying stubbornly under the covers as he does.  

“FRIDAY,” says Peter. “Where’s Tony?”

“Boss is currently in the detention center’s first conference room,” answers FRIDAY.

And Peter can’t help being disappointed. He’d just assumed Tony would be in the kitchen waiting for him to come and have breakfast, but he guesses he should know better. Everything is different now, and for the time being, Tony’s time will probably be devoted to cleaning up the rest of this New Life mess.

“I’m requested to inform you it is preferable for you to stay in the suite and continue sleeping, as you’ve only been asleep for approximately two hours and twelve minutes, but you are able to join boss in the conference room if you must.”

A smile tugs at Peter’s face at the choice in FRIDAY’s last sentence, or rather the way it’s been phrased.

“I’m staying here.”

“Very well.” 

He continues to stare at the ceiling, too exhausted to think about the mess happening all around at the compound. There’s Norman Osborn. There’s the rest of the staff at the facility, complicit by their silence and willingness to work at such a place. There’s all the superpowered kids without homes. There’s Michael. A boy Peter doubts will ever have a home. All of it makes his spin to think about, but it’s all a little less stressful when he remembers he’s not the one who needs to think up solutions to all these problems. 

It’s not his responsibility. The few adults he trusts in the world are taking care of it.

Adults doing what adults are supposed to do.

And besides, his decision to stay in bed and do what he’s told for once is for Tony’s sake, too. The man needs a break. Peter feels capable for doing just this one time for the man who’s done so much for him.

His stomach rumbles a third time, and he groans again, throwing the covers off him. Almost doing what he’s been told will have to do, because his hunger will not let him rest until it’s satisfied.

He treads across his bedroom, a place he once thought of as a prison cell, but now views more as a refuge. Once he gets to the kitchen and switches on the light, something moving in the living room catches his eyes and he freezes for a second. Just one, because it doesn’t take any longer than that to determine the movement is Harry Osborn, in the process of sitting up on the couch. 

“Harry,” says Peter, looking him over. “Umm what are you doing here?”

“Tony says I have to stay here,” he says. “I can’t really go anywhere else.”

“That sucks.” 

“Better than being out there,” says Harry. His eyes move towards the windows. Bright sunshine and blue skies. If Peter didn’t know how cold it actually is outside right now, he’d have to disagree with Harry. The days looks like a dream. “Everyone should know what by father did by now.”

It’s the perfect moment for Peter to tell Harry about his real father. About Richard. And he knows he should, but suddenly he’s very aware of his arms and how they’re dangling from his body. He crosses them, uncrosses them, then solves his problem with the distraction of searching through the cabinets. 

“Hungry?”

“Kind of,” says Harry, and Peter hears him get up from the couch and cross the living room to join him in the kitchen. “Think Tony even has anything edible in here?”

They’re both pleasantly surprised with their options. The cabinets are filled to the brim, with junk food, with healthier food, with anything anyone could want. The fridge is filled with pre-cooked meals curtsey of the kitchen staff at the compound, and the freezer is crammed with ice cream and a few frozen pizzas. They ignore the pre-made breakfast burritos in favor of those. Peter puts a pepperoni one in the oven, and they sip on water and snack on chips while they wait for the timer to wind down.

“So… you’re okay? Those chemicals didn’t…”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” says Harry. He gives Peter a hesitant look. “So you and Tony… aren’t really – “

“Not biologically,” says Peter, and Harry nods.

“And you… you were… how long were you _there_?”

“Four years.”

Harry looks away. “I’m sorry.”

It’s ridiculous for Harry to be apologizing. To apologize on behalf on someone he can’t even control. Harry didn’t even know about it, and there’s no way it could ever be faulted back to him. And it hits him. The reason Tony has forbidden him from ever apologizing, and why he looks like Peter has slapped him across the face every time he does it. 

“It’s not your fault,” says Peter. He says it for Harry, to ease the guilt, but also, he says it for himself, hoping to ease his own false guilt. He inhales, then exhales, gathering the courage to say what comes next. “My dad… uh, my real dad, he’s responsible too, or was responsible, before he died, but it doesn’t mean we’re responsible.”

Peter and Harry share a look, and Peter doesn’t doubt that Harry gets it too. That they’re the only two people in the world who could possibly understand each other. 

The timer on the oven dings and breaks them out of the moment, and the pizza distracts them further. Peter slides the pizza off the oven rack and back onto the cardboard box it came out of it, cutting pieces into uneven and weird shapes. They don’t bother with plates. They eat straight off the cardboard box, standing in the kitchen and talking about pointless topics without any weight.

Once the pizza is completely finished off, they move to the living room, where Peter scrolls Netflix looking for something to watch.   

“Something happy,” Harry informs him. “No gore… or violence.”

And Peter wholeheartedly agrees. He remembers what it was like the first time he’d been in the room with someone died, although it wasn’t quite the same. It wasn’t by Michael’s hand, but by that awful poison that bracelet that was once strapped around his wrist. Harry gives him an annoyed look when Peter turns on an animated Disney film. His only response in return is a shrug. Harry doesn’t complain out loud, so Peter takes his original look of distaste as an obligatory protest to watching something he deems as childish, and the movie begins. 

They’re both asleep before the second act.

The next few days pass like this, in bits of conversation, eating and movie watching, until the living room in the suite is turned into a fortress of blankets and pillows, piled up so high Tony stops on his usual track from the elevator to his room for a shower. He stares. Blinks. Then continues on his way. Peter lets out a breath. He doesn’t want the man to ask him where they all came from. He’d have to admit to stealing some from the compound housekeeping wing while he was out on one of his walks, and he doesn’t want Tony to revoke his newly found freedom to walk around as he pleases. 

While Tony takes his shower, Harry and Peter settle with ice cream for dinner. They’re making their way through the entire freezer and are filling up their bowls for the second time when Tony reappears from the shower. He stops again. Stares again, but this time he doesn’t blink.

“No,” says Tony. “Absolutely not. We’re having something healthy for dinner tonight.”

Harry and Peter look up at him from the kitchen table while he snatches the bowls away and aggressively throws them in the sink, cranking up the hot water to dissolve the ice cream. Tony’s version of a healthy dinner turns out to be ordering Chinese food from the next town over. When it finally arrives, Peter pushes around a piece of fried chicken covered in sauce around on his plate.

“I hardly see how this is different…”

Tony cuts him with a glare, and they spend the rest of the dinner peacefully quiet. Tony tired from the New Life mess, Peter thinking about Michael in the detention center, which Tony has forbidden him from asking about after he’s bugged him about it these last few days, and Harry looking mournfully contemplative.

After they’re done with dinner, Tony hands him his laptop and tells him to order the essentials, and Peter gets the best idea. He disappears into his own room, finds one of his tablets under his bed and puts his own credit card to good use.

The next day, around noon, Harry takes to one of his moods, getting sulky and quiet, and so Peter decides to give him some space. His feet carry him down to the hallway that leads to double doors, and beyond those doors, the compound’s detention center. He knows better to wonder inside. It’s the only place Tony has told him is off-limits, but he can’t help it. He crawls on the ceiling, and he waits. 

It isn’t long before he hears Nat approaching. He doesn’t need to see her face or hear her voice to know it’s her. It’s all in the footsteps, the heartbeat, the little subtle things a regular person wouldn’t notice but Peter’s spider sense makes impossible to ignore. He makes a web and glides towards the floor, legs naturally folding into a triangle shape as he stares at Nat’s upside-down face. He throws his weight, jumps into a backflip and lands it with effortlessly.

“Show off,” she says. “I admit it. You’re getting good at that.” 

She steps past him and continues her gait down the hallway, leaving Peter to turn with a jog to catch up with her.

“Wait! Where’re you going?”

“You know where I’m going, and no you can’t come.” 

Peter’s shoulders fall as they come to a stop outside the doors he’s not allowed to go through. “I just want to know what’s going to happen to him after all this is over.”

“I know,” says Nat. She sighs, then seems to size him up. “What about you?”

“What about me, what?”

“What are you going to do now that you’re a free spider?”

He shrugs. He hasn’t given much thought to life when they finally get back to the penthouse. “I dunno. Tony wants me to be a normal kid, so school I guess. Friends.”

“Normal kids don’t hang upside down from the ceiling,” she says. There’s a tone of disbelief in her voice, and it’s almost as if the idea of him being completely normal is completely ridiculous to her. “Something tells me that’s not what you have in mind, either.” 

“I want to be _both,_ ” says Peter. It’s possible to be more than one thing. Both a part-spider, web-slinging superhero and a regular high school kid. He looks around the big, empty hall. Someday he could be an Avenger, living here for real, but he’s got a feeling Tony won’t like that idea. 

“Quit haunting this hallway and go keep your friend company,” she tells him, before disappearing through the double doors.

With a disappointed sigh that gets huffed in vain, sometimes Peter has trouble remembering not everyone hears like he can, he turns around and heads back up to the suite. Harry’s in a better mood by the time he gets back and has the next Disney movie playing in their lineup.

“You started this without me?” asks Peter, collapsing into a pile of blankets. He closes his eyes and rubs them in frustration. He needs to find a way into that portion of the building without getting caught. FRIDAY makes this impossible.

“Didn’t think it meant so much to you,” says Harry, with a careless shrug typical of him. He keeps his eyes on the TV screen.

Peter pops one eye open at him. “We need popcorn.”

“And more ice cream.”

The movie gets put on pause, Peter puts a bag of popcorn in them microwave and Harry gets out the bowls.

Their movie marathon only gets interrupted when either of them can stay up any longer, and immediately gets back underway the next morning. It isn’t until the afternoon when they’re met with another distraction. Tony’s voice comes over the intercom to instruct Peter to meet him at the receiving dock. Peter springs into action. That can only mean one thing, and when he arrives, he sees Tony standing among boxes of game consoles, headsets, controllers and other cardboard boxes Peter can only assume are filled with games. 

“What the hell is all this?” asks Tony.

“Gaming stuff.”  

“I can see that. You have all this at home. We’re rich, not wasteful.”

Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s not for me. I just thought it’d be good for Harry to have something to take with him to the farm.”

He hadn’t been thrilled when Harry mentioned to him he’d be staying with Clint. Peter always just assumed Harry would be coming back to the penthouse with them, and life would return to how it was before, minus the lies. He’s determined to make the most of it, though, and at least this way they can still game together, that is if the Barton family’s internet holds up.

Peter picks up a controller box and examines it as he continues to feel Tony scrutinizing him.

“You know, he’s never had of this before. Norman wouldn’t let him,” says Peter. “But Clint loves all this stuff. His kids too, probably.” He tosses the box to Tony, who catches it without taking his eyes off Peter. “Just thought it’d be nice.”

Tony fixes him with a stare before setting the controller box down and instructing the crew on the dock to have all the boxes sent up to the suite. He slings his arm around Peter’s shoulder as they leave receiving and enter yet another empty hallway.

“Do you realize you just spent thousands of dollars without asking me?” 

“I knew you wouldn’t care,” says Peter.

“Of course I don’t care,” says Tony. “I just remember there was a time you had trouble buying just a shirt…”

“That was an expensive shirt!”  He shrugs out from under Tony’s arm and races up the hall ahead of him, but ultimately stopping so he can catch up. “And this is different. It’s not for me.”

When Tony catches up to him, Peter immediately wishes he kept running and didn’t look back. He’s developing another extra sense. The ability to see a talk coming before the words start coming out of Tony’s mouth, but this time, he’s not fast enough. There’s no escape or even distracting him once he gets started.

“I’ve been hearing you like to hang around, literally, by the detention center,” says Tony. Peter doesn’t commit to words. Silence is the best weapon. “You need to cut that out. You’re not allowed in there, and we’re playing this ‘how close can I get to the line’ game. Stay away from it.”

“But what about – “

“I know you're concerned about Michael. It’s being worked out,” says Tony. He looks at his watch. “It’s getting late – “ 

“It’s only like three!”

“Time for you to head back up to the suite for the rest of the day,” says Tony, pushing him toward the elevator.

“Okay,” he says. He puts one foot on the elevator, to hold it, but doesn’t step all the way inside yet. “Aren’t you coming too?”

Tony looks at him like he should be smarter than this, and Peter knows it’s a dumb thing to ask. He can’t help it. Busy. Everyone’s busy, and he’s really starting to miss the days when Tony was just around, in the workshop or elsewhere. He’s starting to miss everyone. Pepper. Happy. Nights in the gym with Steve. Playing cards with Nat and Clint.

“You know there’s still work to be done with New Life,” says Tony. “But I’ll be up for dinner.”

Peter nods and lets the elevator doors shut between them. Harry’s asleep on the couch, so Peter goes into his bedroom and shuts the door, opting to crawl back into his bed. A nap in the middle of the day? He doesn’t see why not. Sleep comes easy, and all his dreams are completely devoid of monsters and glass walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know I said there was only two chapters left last time, but now really, there's only two chapters left. Sorry if it's annoying! This chapter turned out to be so long already and there's still a few more things that need to be resolved. The good news is they will at least be posted sooner, the next one coming this weekend and the epilogue by Wednesday of next week!! Thanks to everyone sticking around for this story! The subs, bookmarks, people leaving kudos and people leaving comments, you guys are awesome!


	24. innocent and heartless part 2

  1. innocent and heartless part 2



 

Tony watches the elevator doors slide close. He keeps his eyes on Peter as the boy disappears behind them and gets sent all the way up to his suite. Well, the suite. Tony isn’t sure he’s claiming it as his anymore. Not since it’s been wrecked. Completely taken over by two teenage boys who’ve turned his living room into a pile of blankets, and his kitchen into a wasteland of junk food wrappers and empty soda cans.

He makes a mental note to give housekeeping a call, or a better idea, yell at Peter and Harry until they clean up after themselves. 

He turns with a jolt, his breath catching at the sudden appearance of Nat. She stands directly behind him, still and waiting. 

“Jesus Christ,” says Tony. “There are better ways to approach people, you know like by making noise and maybe, I don’t know, using words.”

“More fun this way,” says Nat. “And you’re usually not so jumpy.”

“It’s been a long week,” he admits, then runs a hand over his hair. “I take it the situation hasn’t changed.”

“If by changed you mean deteriorated, then yes.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. He isn’t sure how their angry teenage fire mutant problem could deteriorate into something worse. The boy doesn’t talk. He refuses to eat. Doesn’t let anyone near him without a struggle, and when they moved him from the interrogation cell and into something more secure with a bed and a toilet, it’d taken both Steve and Bucky to get the job done.

With a weary sigh, Tony follows Nat’s lead towards the detention center. “What happened?” 

“He went after Clint,” she tells him. “Well he tried to. He wasn’t successful, but it threw him into another rage. He was still screaming and punch the wall repeatedly when I left.”

“I thought we decided only Steve or Bucky go in,” says Tony. It’s dangerous and stupid for anyone else to try, and he thought they were all in agreement.

She shrugs. “He thought he could get through to him.”

As they turn a corner, Tony’s tiredness catches up with him. Between the two teenagers in the suite, and the one they’re keeping in a cell, he’s starting to wear himself thin.

“Remember thinking Peter was a challenge?” Tony muses out loud.

Nat makes an affirmative humming sound, and he withdraws even further into his thoughts.

He misses those days. They were hard, and sometimes sleepless, the nights he drove with Peter in the car until he passed out or they ate dessert at their favorite diner made life rough in the morning, but these times are worse. Peter, with his innocence and brilliance, his good heart, his haunted eyes, is easy to make sacrifices for. As much as Peter tries to play the tough guy act, he’s never very convincing. Michael is different. He’s so convincing Tony is beginning to believe it isn’t an act. That he’s heartless and empty, and when Tony is really tired, like they all are, he resorts to wondering if there’s anything left inside the boy if all except rage and cruelty, if it’d really be so bad to send him to the Raft with Norman, if there’s anything left to the kid to save.

Seems hopeless to have hope, seems like a waste of time when there’s so many other worries battling for Tony’s brain space.

Most of them are have dealt with by now. New Life employees were processed quickly, then sent away to prisons, so they can be the ones spending time behind bars while they wait for a trial. All of the rescued kids are in the medical wing getting their biology tested while they get healthy. According to Fury, there are more than a few retired or nearly retired SHIELD agents looking for the quiet life they missed out on during years of service. Some of the kids have already been claimed, and as soon as they’re ready, will be shipped off to new homes with new parents.

“He told me something interesting the other day,” says Nat, as they turn another corner and enter the hallway that’s become one of Peter’s favorite spots to campout. “Said he’s going to be normal now. Which is fine, if that’s what he wants, but he didn’t say it’s what he wants, he said that’s what _you_ want.”

“So this is what all those whiny mommy vloggers are talking about when they complain about mom-shaming?”

“I’m not sure what to comment on first,” says Nat. “You watching mom vlogs in your spare time or you referring to yourself as a mother…”

“You know what I mean,” says Tony. “He’s my kid, and I know what’s best for him.”

They come to a stop outside the of the detention center doors and stare at each other, face to face.

“Except what’s safest and what’s best aren’t always the same,” says Nat. “You can’t stop him from being himself. He was saving kids and putting himself at risk for the sake of others long before we rescued him.”

“I know that,” says Tony, sharp and annoyed. It’s another one of his qualities that make him endearing. That makes him easy to save. The boy who does so much for everyone else he forgets to think about himself. If Tony doesn’t think about his safety, who will? Certainly not Peter.

“Then you also know you can try and get him to live a normal, simple life, and he’ll listen to you for a while. He loves you, but how long until he resents you for it? How long until that causes him to do something stupid and reckless?”

“He’s not coming on anymore missions.”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting,” says Nat. “He needs training, so when he inevitably decides to play the hero again, he’ll have all the knowledge and know-how to be safe.”

She opens the door and disappears through it before Tony can offer her a response. He isn’t stupid, and he knows she’s right. Peter isn’t normal. His powers are honestly amazing, and he if were meeting him today, under different circumstances, he’d be recruiting him for the Avengers. Putting him in the training Nat is suggesting. No questions asked.

But this isn’t a different circumstance. This is the world they live in, and Tony can’t stop looking at him and seeing him as he is, fragile and traumatize by life’s worst kind of people and… undoubtedly, his son.

Sons should live better lives than their fathers, and he wants Peter to everything. He doesn’t want him walking around, feeling like he owes the world when the world has taken plenty away from him already. Tony won’t have it. Won’t have him making sacrifices with his time and with his life when he shouldn’t have to.

Tony shakes these thoughts away as he enters the detention center. It’s another problem for another day. 

He catches up with Nat. She’s standing directly in front of Michael’s cell, looking into it with a titled head and a blank expression. Michael sits on the floor. His knees are up to his chin, and his arms are wrapped around his legs. There’s a plate of food sitting on the metal table attached to the wall, ignored and probably cold by now, and Tony can’t figure out why the boy has opted to sit on the cold, hard floor instead of the bed, which at least has a mattress, even if it is a little thin.

“I’m going in.”

“What happened to –“

Tony puts his hand in the air and waves her off as he nears the door. “I have my gauntlet.”

He interacts with the touchpad by the door and enters the code. The door opens with a click, Tony steps inside and Michael lifts his face. He glares at him. Not with fire like Peter, but with murder. Like he’s the most hated and worse of the Avengers that he’s convinced are his enemies.

“Let me go.” 

His voice is either raspy from all the screaming earlier, from not talking for so long, or from the lack of water. Doesn’t matter. Words spoken out loud are progress. Sure, it’s an order, but at least it’s something. 

“So he does speak,” says Tony. He puts his hand in his pockets in a casual manner, giving himself the appearance of being laid-back, but under the façade, he’s ready for an attack. “Does that mean your temper tantrum is finally over?”

“Let me go,” he repeats. 

“Just the one phrase then,” says Tony. Then softens a little as the death glare continues. This boy is Peter’s age. They may not have much else in common, but they are both so young. “You know we can’t do that.”

Michael makes a noise that’s almost like a growl, but also sort of a whine. He puts his head back down and diverts his attention away from Tony.

“We can let you out of here,” says Tony, but Michael’s head remains down, eyes on the floor between his own feet. “We just need you to end the hunger strike…” He trails off as his eyes drift over the indents of Michael’s fist on the metal walls. “…and to stop punching things.”

Michael looks at him again. With less murder this time. With a plea replacing all the anger.

“Take these off,” he says, moving his arms and gesturing to the metal sleeves keeping the fire contained. He’s still speaking with an order, but there’s less force, more desperation.

“When we can trust you,” says Tony. He beckons for Nat to open the door, and she appears quickly holding a fresh plate of food Tony replaces with the old one. He’s almost out the door when Michael gets his attention once more.

“Stark,” he says. “I’m not sorry I killed the old man.”

Tony looks at him, acknowledges the statement with a nod and leaves. He wants to tell the boy none of the Avengers are particularly sorry Monroe’s dead, but he’s got a feeling he shouldn’t encourage homicide with this kid. 

“Progress,” says Nat, once the door is completely shut and Tony is on the other side.  

“It’s not enough progress. Not until he eats.”

So, they sit at the table on the other side of his cell, playing cards while they wait and watch. Michael never touches the food. Barely even acknowledges it exists. One hour turns into two, then three and four, making Tony feel like a failure with every passing second. Not only because they can’t get a starving fifteen-year-old to eat, but because he realizes too late he promised Peter he’d be back up to eat dinner with him. No doubt the boys gave up on him and found something to eat themselves.

Which means they ate junk food for dinner.

They decide to call it a night, leaving both the detention center and the boy in the cell behind.

 

 

Tony doesn’t find Peter where he’s supposed to be, in the suite, like they discussed. Both him and Nat find him in the gym, their attention getting pulled in as they walk pass by seeing Spider-kid slice through the air via his web-shooters from the corner of their eyes. With a sigh from Tony, they enter the gym together, quickly spotting Steve and Bucky watching Peter’s aerobatics from the ground.

“You know,” says Steve, his head still up, watching Peter as he climbs the wall and does a backflip from it. He’s quick to save himself from plummeting to the ground with another well-timed web. “His powers are truly amazing… and he’s getting really good at using those… things, whatever they are.” 

Tony avoids the look Nat gives him and admits only internally it is nice to see Peter swinging around like this, with a smile on his face and having fun with powers that were forced on him. Maybe, if he were entertaining the possibility of Peter officially training with the Avengers, he can understand her point. And if it’s fun for him, if it’s something he wants to do, it wouldn’t tear at Tony so much to allow him to train. 

“Hey Tony,” Peter shouts at him from the air. “Watch what I can do!”

He falls from the ceiling, attempts to flip into a kick aimed at Bucky, who’s not having it. He simply moves a couple steps to the side and extends his arm, bringing Peter ungracefully to the floor when he can’t stop himself from running into it. Peter crumples on the ground and lets out a deep sigh. 

“Impressive,” says Tony. He looks down at him and extends a hand.

“It worked the first time…”

Tony pulls him to his feet, and his brown hair shifting into his face, some of it poking in wild directions, as if he’s still flying through the air.

“The first time I was distracted, and you didn’t shout your intentions from across the room,” says Bucky.

“Haven’t you ever heard of letting the kid win, Barnes?” asks Tony.

“Have you?”

“How’s Michael?” asks Steve, changing the subject and Tony can practically see Peter’s ears perk up.

“Tony got him to talk,” says Nat. “But he’s still not eating.”

“He hasn’t eaten anything? Since when?”

“Since he’s been here,” answers Tony, remembering why they’ve been keeping Peter in the dark. The well-meaning dramatics and worry he shouldn’t have to deal with. “At this rate, I think we’re going to have to go with plan B.” 

“Plan B? What’s Plan B?” Peter’s eyes move between the four Avengers, searching for answers but finding none, until he gets to Bucky.  

“Knock him out, restraint him and hook him up to an IV.”

“You can’t do that! That’ll just make him hate you more.” 

Peter’s eyes are comically wide, and Tony wants to find something heavy to throw at Bucky. 

“Would you rather us let him starve?”

“No,” says Peter. This time he only looks at Bucky, probably thinking it’s his best chance of getting an answer. “…what’s going to happen to him?” 

“We don’t know, Peter,” says Nat.

“Why can’t he just stay here?” asks Peter. “He could be an asset to the team.” 

“He’s a boy. Not an asset,” says Bucky.

“He doesn’t know _how_ to be a boy. All he likes to do is fight and burn stuff, but if you let him train with you guys, he can do both, he’ll just be more productive about it.”

It’s too well spoken for this to be something Peter is just now coming up with, and it occurs to Tony he’s probably been worried about Michael regardless of his and the other Avenger’s best efforts.

“Peter,” says Steve. “This compound isn’t a home, and he needs… around the clock supervision and care. He needs to be rehabilitated. It’s too much.”

“There’s literally like twenty of you guys living here. You could have shifts.”

Steve and Bucky stare at each other. Tony can’t tell what’s being communicated, he hasn’t caught on to their language yet, but he can at least tell they’re considering it. It isn’t a terrible idea. Not practical, but workable, and considerably better than letting a fifteen-year-old kid waste away in a cell. Ultimately though, it’s up to Steve. Tony isn’t going to have to deal with babysitting the fire terror and teaching him right verses wrong once he takes Peter back to the city. 

After several seconds of silent communication between the two soldiers, Steve shakes his head and Bucky makes a face like he doesn’t agree.

“He’s not even eating,” says Steve. 

“What if he does? What if I can get him to eat?” asks Peter, speaking up with more momentum, sensing he’s changing minds with his case.

“… if you can get him to eat something,” says Steve. “We’ll put it back up for discussion.”

Nat looks at Tony in an extremely pointed way, and he’s almost able to guess the next words that come from her mouth.

“That is if Tony lets you put yourself at risk.”

Tony takes a page from Peter’s book and rolls his eyes. He puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder, steers him away from the rest of the group and out the door, shouting over his shoulder as they, “Good thing going in that cell isn’t risky for someone with superpowers!”

His comment at least makes Peter laugh as they enter the hallway, and once they’re out there, Tony stops and turns to face him.

“What happened to staying in the suite for the evening?”

“What happened to coming up for dinner?”

They stare at each other, and Peter blinks at him innocently. 

“Call it even?”

“Okay,” says Peter, then shrugs. “Hey, let’s go to the diner for dinner, like we used to before.”

“You think we should leave Harry on his own?”   

“We’ll go keep him company,” says Nat, as she exits the gym, Steve and Bucky on her trail. “You guys should go. Get fresh air. Drive. Talk about the future.”

Tony glares at her back as she moves down the hall and towards the elevator. She’s not wrong, maybe not completely right, but also, not wrong. A future that doesn’t involve Peter using his powers in one way or another is a delusion he can no longer believe in, and he has to hate Nat a little bit for ruining his fantasy. 

* * *

Days in the Stark suite pass by blurry for Harry. It’s like watching a movie that goes on and on and on. Like he’s a spectator of his own life. Not truly there with his feet on the ground, but hovering somewhere in the air, somewhere below the ceiling but absolutely not near the sky. He’d have to be outside for that, and Harry hasn’t been outside in what feels like a million years.

He watches himself watching movies with Peter. Eating dinner at the table with both him and Tony, when the man isn’t too busy to join them. Lying on the couch alone while Peter takes his walks around the compound. When he’s alone he takes out the vial of chemicals leftover from New Life. Just to stare at it. To wonder what would happen.

And while the movie of his life plays, he can’t turn off the commentary. His thoughts never bothering to shut up while everything plays out in real time. Thoughts that are sometimes grateful for Peter, for Tony, for having a place to go that isn’t the system. Thoughts that are bitter. Resentful. Worse of all is a nagging voice calling him a traitor to the Osborn name, because he didn’t mind eating with the Starks. Actually, he prefers them to his father, even before Harry confirmed the man was a really a monster.

But despite this, he still can’t help wanting to see Norman and every time he asks Tony he gets the same answer.

“Soon.” 

It isn’t until Harry’s last night at the compound, when him and Peter are perfectly content playing one of the new games in the living room, that Tony breezes through and announces its time for his visit with Norman. Harry pauses, sets his controller down on the coffee table and cranes his neck to look at Peter. The noises from the game stop. Peter, ever the good-sport, must have paused it.

Tony lowers his voice and softens his tone. “It’ll be the last time you see him for a while.”

Harry nods and follows Tony onto the elevator after hesitantly putting on both the large hoodie and sunglasses handed to him. It’s a bad disguise, but as Harry and Tony walk through the maze of empty hallways in the Avengers Compound, he learns it’s just a precaution. There’s no one around. Not a soul.

He’s aware of that awful vial he keeps in his pocket every step he takes towards where they keep the prisoners. 

As it turns out, the sight of his father in a prison cell is the anchor it takes for Harry to realize his feet are really on the ground. It’s sobering to see Norman sitting on a bed made of metal, attached to the wall with more metal. Not exactly the life of luxury they’re both used to. The Barton Farm, in comparison, is probably paradise.

Harry’s looking forward to all the space. To breathe. To rest.

Tony unlocks the door with a number sequence, and it clicks open. “I’ll be out here, but I won’t be able to hear anything. The audio blocker is on, and you won’t be able to see me from the other side, but when you’re ready, just wave and I’ll open the door.”

Harry offers him another nod before stepping inside the cell. Instantly he gains his father’s full attention, but it’s too late now. Norman won’t get any credit for this one. There’s literally nowhere else for him to look. 

“Harry.”

They lock eyes, and the green tint in Norman’s strikes him. His eyes might have looked that way if it weren’t for Clint.

“How are they treating you?”

“Fine.” 

“Better than me, I suppose,” says Norman, shrieking back on the small bed, until his back hits the wall. He looks criminal, and it’s fitting somehow. The inside now matches the outside. 

“Yeah well,” says Harry. “You kind of deserve it.”

Norman narrows his eyes at him. They are sharper, cut him deeper, than usual. “You’ve always been naïve, but I didn’t expect you to buy into Stark’s lies so easily. I thought you were better than that. Never pictured you as a traitor.”

It’s evident in this moment where all the bitter, resentful voices in his head come from. Not from himself, but from Norman. It’s a relief. If they’re just from this lonely man in a prison cell, he can write them off as conditioning from years of bad parenting and be on his way. Still, Harry didn’t want it to go this way, didn’t want his last visit with his father to devolve into an argument, the way it had during his ransom call.

“I’m sure you won’t be such an Iron Man fan once he drops you off at social services,” says Norman. “But don’t worry. The family fortune will be waiting for you once you’re eighteen.” 

“Who says I want it?”

“Don’t be foolish.”

“You’re the one who’s been foolish,” says Harry. He backs up towards the door because he feels the words coming. The ones he’s held back from so long. “I just wanted us to be a family, but you were always too busy, so at least I had my friends… but you took them away from me too and made me go to some school where everyone hated me except Peter… I don’t want anything to do with you anymore, and I sure as hell don’t need your money.”

“You’ll change your mind,” he says, in a typically confident Norman Osborn way, and it further incites Harry’s building rage. Rage is good. It’s another anchor to remind him he’s not floating up somewhere by the ceiling, but has his feet firmly planted on the ground. 

“I won’t, and you won’t ever see me again,” says Harry. He waves at Tony through the double-sided mirror and moves closer to the door. He takes one last look at Norman. “Why did you do it? Why did you inject yourself with that… with that stuff?”

“I thought that was fairly obvious,” says Norman. There’s something like a smile on his face, and it seems wrong. “I did it for you.”

Harry’s face scrunches up as he tries to figure out how that could be, what Norman means by it, when the door clicks, and Tony appears on the other side of it. In a haze of confusion, he steps out of the cell, away from the man who, without his new powers, has nothing but fear and money and a broken moral compass. Not like Tony. He’s still Tony Stark once the Iron Man armor comes off, or even Peter, who’s still remarkable and good when he’s pretending he doesn’t have spider powers. 

He makes eye contact with Tony, and tries to speak, but the words don’t come.

“Are you okay?” 

The vial in his pocket seems lighter somehow, but also heavier. He can’t carry it around anymore, and after seeing his father, he sure as hell doesn’t entertain using it anymore. He digs in his pocket, retrieves it and hands it out to Tony. 

“Here,” he says, and Tony takes it with a raised eyebrow aimed at him, before he puts on his attention on the vial. Harry angles his head to the side and looks into his father’s cell. “I think it’s the same stuff he injected himself with.”

Harry expects questions, maybe a scolding for giving it to Tony sooner, but he stays quiet as he examines the vial. He gives it a slight shake, holds it up to the light, and when his attention returns to Harry, gives him a cross between a smirk and a grin.

“Nice choice, kid.”

Harry allows a small smile in return and walks with Tony back to the elevators. He doesn’t come back up with him, so when the elevator doors open, he’s alone looking in on the scene playing out in the kitchen. Peter, Nat and Clint sit at a table littered with beer cans and soda cans, playing cards, and laughing. Peter is so caught up in the moment, not even his extra senses alert him Harry is now standing in the room. 

Typical.

Or at least it’s typical for just a second.

It’s Clint with his back turned who asks him, “In or out, Osborn?”

“Umm,” says Harry. Him and Peter exchange glances while Harry tries to figure out how Clint knew he was there. Peter just shrugs, guessing his question, and Harry finally says, “In.”

He takes a seat at the table, and they reshuffle the desk, starting a new game just to include him. New hands are dealt, and Harry hopes they’re better than the original ones. 

* * *

They’re only about five minutes into their fresh game when Tony calls Peter down to the detention center. At last. He gets his chance at last. He runs to his bedroom to get something he shoves in his pocket, then makes his way down. Just minutes later he finds himself standing in front of Michael’s cell. Tony shoves a plate with a sandwich, cold vegetables and fruit at him, keys in a number sequence and Peter walks into the cell.

Only Michael’s eyes move as he follows Peter’s movements across the cell. He puts the plate of food down on the floor, in the very center, then backs up to the cell’s other side, and sits crossed-legged on the floor.

“What? You’re the new food delivery boy?”

Peter reaches his hand in his pocket and pulls out the small toy car he’d gotten at a convenience store with Tony the night before. He rolls it across the floor, and Michael watches it with a glare.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?”

“Don’t you remember?”

Peter does. Well, flashes of it anyway. Brief images and sounds from the five- or ten-minutes Peter and Michael played together. Their first and last time, and also, the last time both of the them were truly children before their lives changed forever. Michael, of course, got the worse of it. He’s victim number one. There longer and exposed to Richard Parker’s cruelty.

“We raced back and forth in the training room,” says Peter. “I kept getting so frustrated, because you were always faster than me.”

Michael stares at the car on the floor, and although he doesn’t say so out loud, Peter has a gut feeling he’s remembering. Or at least, starting too. The same way it took Peter’s memories awhile to become clear and less fuzzy the longer he was away from the facility, the longer he didn’t have poison strapped around his wrist. One of the side-effects of the that poison, Bruce explained it to him a couple of days ago, memory loss.

The perfect way to make it easy for kids to forget their names and life from before.

Michael shifts his attention from the car to Peter. “I remember your dad Richard Parker. Only he made us call him Dr. Parker.”

“He wasn’t a doctor.”

“Yeah, no shit, dumbass,” says Michael. He looks away, shrugs off his sudden anger, replaces it with the mocking, taunting version of himself Peter is most familiar with. “You know, I probably remember him better than you do. We definitely spent more time together. Man was married to his work, right?” 

Peter takes a breath in, then exhales, taking comfort in reminding himself Tony is on the other side of that mirror, even if he can’t see him. It’s uncomfortable, to be confronted by all the terrible things his dad did, but Michael needs to say it out loud, needs someone to air out all his trauma, might as well be the son of his tormentor.

“He would talk about you during… treatments,” says Michael. “My son Peter this, my son Peter that… on and on about you and how you’re going to be smart just like him…”

“I’m nothing like him,” says Peter, and it’s spoken with absolute certainty. If he were anything like his father, he wouldn’t have all these wonderful people on his side. The Avengers, his family.

“He stopped coming to see me, eventually. He liked to get his hands on the new ones. A blank canvas, he used to say.”

“He wasn’t a good person.” 

He’s come to this conclusion, and he’s made peace with it, despite both Steve and Tony trying to encourage him otherwise. He appreciates their efforts. Their denial is formed from the reality that both of them would go back in time and change the past for Peter. If they could, they would rearrange the stars and take out all the bad to replace them with something good, but they can’t. No one can. The truth of the past still stands. Richard Parker made bad choices, so many of them he became the sum total of those choices, became so evil it’s impossible to separate the man from his crimes.

There’s still time for Michael, though. Peter is convinced. They’re both still so young.

“But the Avengers are good people, and they just want to help,” says Peter. He looks at the plate of food in the middle of the cell. “Aren’t you hungry? Even a little?”

Seconds tick by with only silence.

“You have to eat something. If you don’t, they’ll just send you someplace worse than here, but if you cooperate with them, they’ll let you out of here… and into a real room, eventually.” 

“Yeah? If I’m a good boy they’ll let me out?”

“…yes.”

Michael snorts. It’s too exaggerated to be genuine. “And what then? I’ll get to be like you?”

“Well…”

Not exactly. Not even Peter is naïve enough to believe life could ever be normal for Michael the way it can be for Peter. There’s a home, a family and friends waiting for him back in the city, but he doubts Michael even wants those things. But he can have this. The Avengers. Life at the compound where maybe he’ll never be truly, but at least it’s not New Life Research Facility. 

At least it’s not hell.

“You can still fight, you know,” says Peter. He stands, and Michael lifts his head to watch him. “And use your powers again. You’ll just be… fighting for the right side this time.” 

The door clicks open, and when he exits the cell, Tony is waiting for him on the other side. 

“Let’s just go back to the suite?” he asks, and the implication, the unasked question hangs in the air. That Tony will join them in their card games.

“Sure.”

Peter beams. 

Only the card game has fizzled out by the time Peter and Tony arrive, so they move into the living where Harry and Peter convince them they should switch to video games. Tony doesn’t participate, but he at least stays and sits by Peter, while him and Harry team up to beat Clint and Nat in one of the fighting games. Except they don’t beat Clint and Nat, and each loss gets Peter more and more frustrated, which makes Tony chuckle and earns him a playful elbow to the stomach from Peter. 

It’s this action, this brief split of attention from the game that causes them to lose when Clint’s avatar body slams Peter’s into the ground. 

Peter lets out a pained groan, and Harry stares at the screen, before turning to look at Clint.

“Can you teach me how to do that trick? In real life?”

Clint shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

Slowly, as if they’re being picked off one by one, the adults trickle out of the living, leaving Harry and Peter by themselves. They stay awake all night playing games, talking, laughing. It is, after all, the last night they’ll see each other for a while, and when the sun comes up, Peter helps Harry pack up all the gaming stuff, all his suitcases filled with clothes and other items he deemed essential. When Clint comes up with the others to get Harry and his stuff, their goodbye is quick and casual.

They’ve already plotted their speeches to lobby for Peter to spend some time at the farm during a weekend or holiday.

Once everyone disappears and the elevator takes them away, Peter looks around the empty suite. It’s him and quiet and the fortress of blankets and pillows. He sits on the couch, and takes it all in, maybe for the first time, that it’s over, that there’s a future ahead of him and it’s not filled with loneliness, despite this empty room.

He gets comfortable, then lets sleep take him. When he wakes up there’s only darkness to be seen through the window. Light from the TV gives the living room a soft glow, and as he shifts around, he’s becomes aware he’s no longer on the couch alone. His legs are lying across Tony’s lap, and his feet are in Pepper’s. Tony has a drink in one hand, and his other arm is around Pepper, even as she shifts forward a bit to meet Peter’s eyes. He gives him a hazy, sleepy smile, the best he can manage while in this state of half-sleep, half-conscience. 

Tony turns his face towards him, too. “Guess who finally gave up and ate today?”

“What? Really?” He’s awake only enough to understand that’s a good thing. It’s good news about Michael.

“Yeah,” says Tony. “Steve and Bucky are going to see what they can do about taking him for a walk outside, if he stays calm enough.”

The good news is enough to keep the smile on Peter’s face, until Tony’s attention drifts back on the TV and another questions springs to mind. 

“Tony,” he says, getting Tony’s focus back. “When are we going home?”

Ice shuffles around in the glass. “…back to the penthouse?”

_“Home.”_  

They have all the right people, now they just need the proper building.

“Just a few more days.”

Peter nods, allows his eyes to close and drifts further into a half-sleep as he listens to the faint sounds of the boring movie Tony and Pepper are watching, to them talking quietly, laughing quietly. And there’s comfort in Tony’s answer. Just a few days. That’s definitely, without a doubt, better than soon.

* * *

For the third time, Tony hesitates outside of his son’s bedroom. They’ve been back in their penthouse home for less than five hours, and he’s already been tasked with ruining the kid’s day. For his own good, he reminds himself, and when he’s gripping the doorknob, turning it and opening the door, he also reminds himself to stay away from looking him in the eyes. Their persuasiveness seems to get more and more effective with time.

Peter’s head pops up from his couch. “Oh, hey Tony. Guess what? I just talked to Ned and he there’s going to be a field trip to SI in a couple weeks. Cool, huh?” 

And Tony feels like an asshole. His guilt, no matter how misplaced, builds into something like a monster, and Peter senses it.

“… I’ll be back at school by then, right?” 

“Well kid – “

He groans, and his head falls back on the couch, leaving Tony to question how he ended up with a child who’s anxious to get back to school.

“I’m sorry, Peter. It’s already too late in the semester. You’ve missed so much, and I was talking to your therapist on the phone – “

He springs back up into a sitting position. “My what?”

“I didn’t tell you about that either?” asks Tony, and Peter shakes his head violently. “Well I’ve made some appointments for you. Twice a week.”

Peter makes another dramatic, animalist sound, sort of like he’s dying or experiencing something extremely painful. “But I want to see my friends.”

“You’ll still see your friends,” Tony assures, and he cringes at himself for reminding the boy there’s technically no reason for him not be able to go out and do things by himself. The first couple of times he’s going to be a nervous wreck. Hell. Maybe he’s the one who needs therapy. “There’s only a couple of months until next semester, and you’ll have time to relax and adjust.”

Peter gives him a look, one that suggests he doesn’t fully agree, but moves on to his next point of protest.

“I don’t want to go to therapy.”

“It’ll help.”

“But I’m fine now. I sleep through the night and I can wear my watch on either wrist and – “

“-First of all, you sleep too much now.”

“I’m making up for lost time,” says Peter, with a whine.

“And secondly, those are all good things, but you still need to talk to someone. You’ve been through… so much. Besides, there is a silver-lining to putting off your return to school.” 

Tony can see Peter working hard to keep his frown going, but hardly any time passes before he caves.

“I’m listening…”

“Well, I was thinking we could take a trip. Somewhere beachy and warm.”

“And Pepper would come too?”

“Wouldn’t be fun without her,” says Tony. 

“So,” says Peter. He sits up again. “…it’s like a family vacation?”

“Yeah.”

Before he can do anything else, think about anything else, there’s a Spider-kid hugging him with what feels like his full strength. This has been happening more and more, and Tony has come to conclude that it’s finally starting to sink in to Peter that he’s not at New Life anymore, that his life is going to be drastically different from this day forward. It brings on these emotional spasms, seemingly from nowhere. Tony doesn’t mind it. He’d just like to be able to breathe.

“Kid…” he rasps. “Can’t…”

“Oh, sorry,” says Peter. He loosens his hold, but he doesn’t let go. He mumbles into Tony’s chest, “thanks for giving me my life back.” 

And Tony is about two seconds away from banning thankfulness as well as apologies, but he stops himself. It’s not the time for anymore rules. Instead he hugs him back until he’s ready to let go, and when he does, they both go harass Pepper about dinner plans. They choose to stay in, order something and eat in front of the TV, no ghosts or glass or ticking clock to distract them from the moment, from each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh man, I seriously can't believe there's only one more of these left to post. Thanks to everyone reading this story, seriously, and for the kudus, bookmarks, subs and comments. It means sooooo much. The epilogue is coming on Wednesday. It's shorter than usual, but I think it's a good send off for this story.


	25. epilogue

epilogue

 

The ocean at night is black waves, sometimes dark blue, rippling up, licking the sand and Peter’s bare feet. On a good night, when the sky is clear, and the moonlight shines bright, there’s stars in the water, if he looks close enough, but lately, he’s not been preoccupied with what’s below, or even what’s above. His eyes are set on the horizon. It fascinates him. The expanse of black, dark blue that goes on and on and on until there’s just the equally black sky, separated by just a thin, flat line.

It’s quiet on the beach, when everyone else is sleeping, and there isn’t any noise to be heard, inside or outside his head. Just the gentle yet crashing and willowing waves, constant and consistent but most of all, soothing. It’s the most fantastic kind of quiet, and it’s what draws him out of his bed and calls him to stare out at the sea. Not restlessness. Not nightmares. Not even insomnia. Just this peaceful quiet that accompanies and pacifies his sorrow.

“It’s not selfish,” Dr. Walters told him, after she dragged these concerns from his head, his concerns that sometimes, like tonight, he’s still so sad over what he’s lost, even after he’s gained so much. “You have a very fortunate life now, but it will never replace the one you lost.”

Peter Parker, for example, is still lost. Legally. He doesn’t want the name back, prefers to let it die with the past, to be buried in rubble just like New Life Research Facility had been when Tony made good on his promise to turn the building to dust. Becoming a Stark permanently doesn’t tear at his conscience or weigh him down. It’s not a betrayal to the family he lost. It’s a fresh start, a new chance, and if the dead get to watch the ones they leave behind, they all understand. Well, almost of all of them would. 

That’s something else he worked out in one of his sessions with Dr. Walters. He doesn’t like to admit it all of the time, and most of the time he still hates going initially, has to be practically dragged out of the penthouse by Tony or threatened by Pepper, but therapy is helping.

Peter rubs his hands up and down his arms. It’s chilly here at night, and he never remembers to grab his jacket from the hotel room before leaving through the sliding glass door near his bed. He backs up, away from the wet sand, and sits down where he’s safe from the tide. His eyes are still on the horizon as he wonders what’s out there.

He hears them coming. Tony’s fast, erratic, always worried and Pepper’s slow, steady heartbeats creep closer, gets louder, until they nearly overpower the crashing of the waves. It figures they would catch on to his nighttime activity. It’s day five of their vacation, and this has been his secret routine since day two.

Nothing stays secret for long in the Stark family. Even without FRIDAY to tattle on him.

“Thinking of going for a swim?” Pepper is the first of the two to join him in the sand. She’s in her pajamas and is wearing a throw blanket over her shoulders, but her hair is elegantly pulled back. Almost as if she were prepared to go stomping along the sand at night.

“Just in my thoughts.”

“A dangerous place to be by yourself,” says Tony, also in pajamas but his bedhead isn’t as classy. His hair sticks up at odd angles. He lowers himself to sit on the other side of Peter. “Easy to drown.”

“Good thing I’m not alone then,” says Peter. He makes his voice purposefully light and offers up a small smile. He doesn’t want them thinking he’s being sarcastic, the native Stark language, because he does appreciate their company now that he has it.

Pepper and Tony seem to get it. That it’s quiet Peter came out here to seek. They’re both perfectly content not saying anything. Happy to just stare at the ocean with him sandwiched between them. Their presence transforms the quiet, adds their breathing and their heartbeats to the ocean’s collapsing waves, and he’d been wrong before. 

 _This_ is the most fantastic kind of quiet.

Instead of drawing him out of his bed and towards the sea, this is the quiet that drives his sorrow from his soul, speaks it out loud and lets it come to a rest. 

“I still miss them,” says Peter. “Even my dad, even after all the awful things he did.”

The response isn’t verbal, but it’s loud. Tony scoot closer, pulls his arm over him and squeezes his shoulder. Pepper removes the blanket from her own shoulders, stretches it across the three of them and puts her arm across his back, under Tony’s. Warmth is immediate and overwhelming and threatens to lure him off to sleep.

Three Starks on a beach, huddled together under a blanket below the stars, watching and waiting for the sun that will come for all of them eventually.

By breakfast it’s hung in the sky burning bright and hot.

Peter leans back in the wicker chair on the patio. A salty breeze blows through his freshly cut hair as his thumbs work furiously on his phone. The food laid out on the table, fresh fruit and pancakes, is ignored, at least by him, as he manages several text conversations. He’s so caught up in it he doesn’t sense Tony’s a glare until it’s too late.

“I’m having your phone shut off,” says Tony, and it’s enough to break Peter’s attention. 

“What? Why?”

“It’s been ten minutes since you’ve looked away from it.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” says Pepper. She’s also on her phone. Probably, she’s answering emails.

“I’m texting Ned,” says Peter, in his own defense. He picks up his fork and stabs at the pancake pile on his plate. He doesn’t doubt Tony will actually temporarily suspend his phone service. “Since I can’t see him at school.”

“And you haven’t told him anything about Harry, right?”

“Oh my god,” says Peter. He drags his words. He drops his fork again. “This is only the tenth millionth you’ve mentioned it.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, still looking for an answer.

“No. No I haven’t told him anything about Harry.”

It’s the topic of every headline. A mystery the world is obsessed with. Where is Harry Osborn? Everyone wants to know, but only the right people do. They’re plenty of conspiracy theories out there on YouTube, plenty of people who believe they know what happened to Harry once his father was put away. Peter and Harry are entertained by all the speculation. Sending each other links to the newest, craziest theories on his whereabouts is their favorite way to pass time. 

“Speaking of Harry…” says Peter. “Clint says it’s okay if I spend a week at the farm with them… you know, since I’m not allow at school yet and all. Plus Dr. Walters says it’s good for engaged couples to spend time alone.”

“Oh Dr. Walters says that?” says Tony. He turns towards Pepper. “Did you hear that, Pep? She’s a marriage counselor now… guess it’s time to fire her.”

“We’re not firing her,” comes Pepper’s bored response. She’s put her phone down on the breakfast table, but still can’t be bothered with Tony’s dramatics.

“She overcharges.”

“She knows we can afford it,” says Pepper. “I think it’s a great idea for Peter to go spend time with his friend. It’s the perfect chance for you to work on _letting go_.”

That last part is said with over emphasizes, said in way that makes Peter believe it’s in reference to a conversation where he hadn’t been included, and it isn’t hard to figure out what that conversation was about. He doesn’t need to be there for private conversations to understand Tony struggles with being overprotective. Peter wasn’t the only one traumatized by the events that happened in the training room the night they first met, and Peter can only wonder if Tony will ever stop looking at him and seeing the boy from that room, instead of the teenager that sits in this chair.

“A weekend. You can have a weekend,” says Tony. Peter beams, until Tony checks his watch and his smile crashes to a frown. He knows what’s coming. “Almost time for your skype session with the engagement expert. Hurry up with your breakfast.”

Online sessions with Dr. Walters while they’re away on vacation was Tony’s idea. A schedule, he keeps insisting, they need to keep up with the schedule.

Instead of his pancakes, Peter reaches for his phone on his instinct, to tell Harry about the good news.

“Alright enough, hand it over,” says Tony. He extends his arm across the table and opens his hand, waiting for Peter to give up his phone. After his helpless look at Pepper yields no defense from her, he drops it into Tony’s hand and eats his breakfast. 

When his session with Dr. Walters is over and he reemerges from inside, it’s raining. It’s a soft rain, and the sun is at a weird angle in proportion to the clouds, casting its light despite the water falling from the sky.

A sun shower.

He takes a moment, and he remembers Laney, and he remembers the rest of them who didn’t make it, then heads to the beach to enjoy the both the sunlight and the rain.

* * *

Life changes fast, and sitting in the Barton barn, bundled up in a heavy winter coat and thick winter hat, this has never been more transparent. Just last week he’d been shirtless in the Caribbean trying to body surf on the waves, now he’s freezing to death despite his many layers while Clint teaches Harry martial arts in an obviously and criminally unheated barn. 

It’s even more transparent when he remembers, as he often does, just four months ago he was stuck inside metal walls.

His cold nose begs him to go back inside. Laura said something about cooking hot cocoa over the stove, and nothing sounds better to Peter in this moment than hot cocoa. He stays in his spot sitting by the hay, though. He doesn’t want to look weak. Especially since both Clint and Harry aren’t even wearing coats. They’re both in long sleeve, but thin, thermal shirts, the kind meant to work out in. To add to his wounded pride, sometimes he thinks he sees them sweating.

The thing is, Harry’s getting pretty good at throwing punches, at dodging them, at planting well timed kicks, and in a few years, when the world is finally reintroduced to Harry Osborn, Peter feels sorry for the first person who thinks they’re going to push him around.

Peter’s pride doesn’t hold out much longer, and neither Clint nor Harry notices him leaving the barn.

He helps Laura with the hot chocolate in the kitchen, listening to the Barton kids shouting in the living room over whatever game they’re playing. He’d been right. A love for video games is a Barton trait, and they’d all been happy with the system upgrades. 

After Harry and Clint finally come inside, after Peter and the family drink hot chocolate and eat warm, gooey cookies in front of the fireplace, him and Harry retreat to his bedroom. Well, attic. That’s where Harry lives now. The attic, but it’s easily the coolest room in the house.

The ceiling is split into two sides, both angled up, like a triangle and Harry’s artwork is displayed all around the room, taped to the wooden ceiling. It’s like being in an art museum, or a comic book store, and it gives Peter the best idea. 

Hours later, when Harry is finished drawing the thing Peter describes to him, he holds up one of his marker pens.

“This color?”

Peter shakes his head. It’s not quite right.

“How about this one?”

It’s the most brilliant shade of bright red.

“Yeah. Perfect.”

Harry takes the correct pen to the sheet of paper and begins to fill it in, so Peter can imagine what being an Avenger would be like, even if it’s just on paper.

Another week flashes by, and Peter is reminded again how abrupt life is with its changes, that spending four years stuck, or nine years, in Michael’s case, can be erased in just seconds, in just the amount of time it takes to enter a number sequence on a computer. 

He dodges one Michael’s punches with a grin, watches as his arm, still covered with metal instead of fire, sails by and misses him.

“Too slow,” says Peter. He ducks away from the follow-up punch, and Michael gives an angry growl in return.

“You’re letting him bait you.” Steve coaches from the sidelines, but it’s not for Peter’s benefit. It’s for Michael’s.

He takes these training sessions so seriously, and Peter can’t understand why. It’s not life or death, so Peter isn’t meaning to bait him with his commentary, with his grins during combat. He’s just having fun, which seems to make all the difference, because when Michael comes at him again, controlled by nothing more than Peter’s harmless comments, he takes easily him to the ground using a trick Nat taught him. 

“Alright, guys that’s enough,” says Steve.

Peter offers up his hand to help Michael up, and for the first time, he accepts. 

“Just one more round?” asks Peter, as Steve is checking his watch. There’s another thing he doesn’t understand. Why all the adults around him are so obsessed with schedules and time.

“Nope. Time to head out.” 

Peter’s shoulders drop, and he sighs before walking back to the side of the gym with Michael. Days at the compound always go by too quickly. Peter only gets to train every other Saturday, except it isn’t listed on the schedule as training. Tony writes it in as visitation rights, refusing to acknowledge Peter is being trained for combat and instead preferring to think about it as the rest of Avengers wanting to see him. It’s both, Peter’s sure, but he doesn’t mention that to Tony.

After all, he doesn’t want the man to amend the custody agreement, make his training days once a month instead of twice.

Peter and Michael wait in silence as Steve and Bucky discuss something in the distance.

They never really talk much. There isn’t much to say. Peter knows better than to jinx his progress by saying out loud how much healthier he looks, by commenting he knows firsthand how much better it feels to actually not be starving and how he didn’t know the difference until he woke up with an IV in his arm. And besides health, there’s less edges to Michael then there were before, less anger, until they’re in the middle of a mock fight. 

“It isn’t…” says Michael and Peter fights to keep the surprise off his face. They don’t make small talk while they’re waiting around. Usually. “It’s not completely horrible here.”

“Just the regular of horrible amount then?”

“A cut below regular.”

As Peter walks out of the gym with Steve, he takes a look over his shoulder at Michael and Bucky. It is, apparently, normal for them to talk. Leave it to Michael make friends with the person it took Peter so long not to hate.

* * *

 

It’s a Sunday afternoon when Tony returns home to his penthouse and finds a disaster zone in his kitchen. 

The table is littered with paper bags from various chain fast food restaurants, the food that came from said bags, and in the middle of it, Peter and Pepper, eating a lunch buffet of America’s finest and most greasy foods. He blinks a couple of times to make sure he’s seeing correctly, but the sight doesn’t change. Pepper, who tells Tony he needs to eat better, sits next to Peter eating french fries.

“Why?”

Peter shrugs. “I’ve never had any of this before.”

“So you’ve decided to try it all in one afternoon?”

“I guess so.” 

Tony turns to Pepper. “And you agreed to this?”

“Catherine’s recommendation.”

“Fired.” 

It’s been so long since Tony has had to deal with Peter’s aversion to certain foods, his weird, picky eating habits and his fear of being poisoned, he finds it hard to believe this is necessary for therapy. He finds it more likely Peter is using this as an excuse to binge out on gross food, the same way he brings up he’s not in school to attempt to guilt Tony into letting him have his way. It’s only effective sometimes, and he can’t honestly blame the boy for trying.

“Don’t act like you’re above it. We got you some cheeseburgers,” says Pepper. She nudges Peter, and he tosses him the Burger King bag.

He sits down with them at the table, unwraps one of the cheeseburgers and points a finger at Peter. “You’re a bad influence.” 

He does eat the cheeseburgers though, and later when the table is cleared away and the evidence of the weirdest lunch Tony’s ever seen is gone, his feet automatically travel to Peter’s bedroom. His door is open, and he’s lying on his back, controller in hand, mindlessly looking at the TV. He looks at Tony, before quickly putting his eyes back on the game. 

“So. Full.” Peter tells him.

“I didn’t think that was possible.”

His metabolism keeps going and going. It’s all the grease that’s probably making him feel full. Grease and salt.

A drawing on Peter’s desk catches his eyes and moves across his room to see it fully. It’s a man in a red and blue costume. Above the figure block letters spell out Spider-Man, and below, in the corner of the paper, Harry’s initials are written in cursive. He picks it up slowly, gently, as if the slightest mishandle will break it. 

“Hey Peter,” says Tony, holding the paper up. “What’s this?”

He pauses the game, then squints. “Oh. Well Harry drew it for me. You know, like what my suit would look like, if I were an Avenger? I know it’s dumb, and it’s not going to happen, it was just… for… pretend.”

Peter goes back to his game, and Tony snaps a picture of the drawing while he isn’t looking. He heads down to his workshop, prepared to spend the evening there. He’s got a lot of work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I really can't believe this is over! And that I've written this much over the last couple of months. I've just been soooo attached to this story, and it's gotten me out of a huge battle with writer's block. I hit a place with my novel this year and just could not continue, but this story saved me, which is why I'm sooo thankful for every kudos, comment, bookmark or whatever. THANKS so much for reading! 
> 
> I'm going to be posting a few one-shots in this series, and maybe a few longer ones (like 1 to 3 chapters) until I can think of something new to write, and splitting my writing time between these fics and that novel I should probably get back to, so my updates might be slower. 
> 
> I do have a Christmas one-shot in this series I'll be posting the day after Thanksgiving, then who knows from there. If you have any ideas, feel free to comment them and I'll try to make it happen! 
> 
> And again, really thanks!!


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